


tonight our school is vietnam

by mayor_crumblepot



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 80s as fuck, Alternate Universe - Heathers, Alternate Universe - High School, Character Death, F/M, M/M, Murder Husbands, Suicide, Talk of Suicide, Underage Drinking, Unhealthy Relationships, a little bit of homophobia but that's more of a trigger warning, but its still important to tag suicide, except as babies lmfao, fake suicide, for barbara and jim and harvey and gertrud and ed's dad and everyone in the school lmfao, idfk i just wanna keep people safe, like theyre actually murders, listen this fic has literally been haunting me for months just take it, nothin big tho, seems to be a more relevant tag, surprisingly! no knives!, theres lots of use of guns in this, this is a bitch to tag for because so much is going on lmfao, use of bombs as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 01:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayor_crumblepot/pseuds/mayor_crumblepot
Summary: Oswald struggles to keep his footing in the most powerful clique in school. His boyfriend, Edward, has a penchant for lying and for shooting from the hip. Barbara was never a good woman, but somehow her death turned her into a martyr. Valerie can't just be a friend, no matter what. Jim and Harvey tip cows and spread rumors. Lee tries her best.[A retelling/rewriting of the 1989 film, Heathers, with a shifted ending and Oswald Cobblepot as Veronica Sawyer, Edward Nygma as Jason Dean, and Barbara, Lee, and Valerie as the Heathers (Chandler, Macnamara, and Duke, respectively.)]





	1. september 1, 1989

**Author's Note:**

  * For [speedybeams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedybeams/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While being suddenly thrust into the most popular clique in school is one of the most stressful things Oswald has ever experienced, it comes with a benefit; finally getting to talk to the strange new kid who sits at the back of the cafeteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _dear diary,_   
>    
>  _why?_   
> 

This is high school number eleven, for Ed. He's surprised he was even able to make it into Gotham Senior High as a second-semester transfer— good thing for his grades. It helps get him wherever he needs to go, being just smart enough to stand out among a crowd. Big picture, he would love to get into college. He wants to go somewhere prestigious, get a degree in forensic science— that's not going to happen, and he knows it.

He's got so many marks on his record that he'd be lucky if he gets into a military college, he's got an attitude that won't get him anywhere, and he definitely doesn't have the money for a nice college. Ed isn't stupid, either; he knows that the future he wants and the future he's on track for don't exactly go hand in hand. 

Sometimes, he thinks about doing something drastic— he thinks about jumping into the river, he thinks about laying in his bed until he dies, he thinks about blowing up a school. It's not like he has anything to lose, not at this point. 

Usually, though, he sits alone at lunch and nurses a chocolate milk carton of questionable age. Sometimes, he eats a sandwich, if he remembers to bring one. 

Ed's been new for a week before he finally gets a handle on the hierarchies. The lunchroom is set up in a grid, like the streets of New York City, and this helps him to navigate. Everything starts in the left-hand corner by the doors and ends at the empty table that Ed has claimed as his own. People don't sit where they don't belong, they don't venture out of their specified space, and they don't try to interact across circles. People stay where it's safe, take the abuse they're occasionally served, and that's that.

Ed  _hates_ that. 

From his little top right table, Ed seethes. He drums his fingers on the table and thinks about all the terrible things he could do to the people who run the entire system. He's yet to see them, either too distracted, too asleep, or too unable to stomach their vapidity.

They come into the lunchroom as a single mass, the three of them pressed to each others' sides. 

The traditional lunch table seats six, but they see that nobody takes the other three available seats. It's exclusive, the little clique they form. Nobody comes into it without extreme luck, and nobody comes out of it alive. That's the only thing about them that Ed likes, the cut-throat nature.

He knows that someone like him wouldn't be allowed to come close to them, no matter what.

From where Ed sits, it seems like they're all girls. They're all pretty; symmetrical faces and fashionable clothes, color-coded in red, green, yellow.

The red one trips a freshman with her kitten heel, careful not to get a run in her tights. The kid gets a face full of lunch and runs away, taking the tray with them. It seems like lunch today is chicken pot pie— what a terrible thing to get as a facial mask.

Red, Green, and Yellow giggle.

Over the din of the lunchroom, Ed can hear the sound of heels clicking on tile, the sound of a voice everyone stops talking to hear.

"Okay, lunchtime poll!"

* * *

 

To become friends with Barbara Kean means eternal social safety. (As long as you keep in her good graces, which is easy enough to do, in the grand scheme.) 

Leslie Thompkins and Valerie Vale somehow managed to solidify their places at her side early on. They all went to junior high together, but senior high is where they became the massive force they are now.

You don't just become friends with them. You don't just find your way into their social circle. No, they find you, like God. 

Oswald Cobblepot, as of his senior year, is nowhere close to them. He sits in the bathroom, most lunches. He wears his mother's sewing endeavors like they're fashionable and he loves them dearly. She fashions them all in his favorite shades of black and purple, but that doesn't stop them from being absolutely hideous. 

If anyone were to be asked about Oswald, they'd describe him as fidgety, goth, aggressive, and gay. He doesn't have many other descriptive features about him. He smokes and spikes his hair and blatantly checks boys out in the locker room. 

Oswald is also notorious for his ruthlessness. If you get into a fist fight with him, he'll go for your eyes, and then he'll come for your family. He knows how to find someone's deepest weakness, knows how to exploit it with little sympathy. If someone were to kill themselves over the aftermath of his actions, he wouldn't care. Or, at least, that's the identity he puts forward. 

But he has no friends. No friends that he's seen with.

Occasionally, he can be caught with assumed stoner, Ivy Pepper. (Not-so-lovingly dubbed Poison Ivy by her vicious peers.) The poor girl can't seem to catch a break— having Oswald as a fair-weather friend barely counts. 

No matter what she does, Ivy is on the end of jokes. Every stage of her life is identified by what she couldn't do right, though she doesn't seem to be very aware of it. To some degree, Oswald can't find it in his heart to tell her that when people laugh, they're laughing at her. She hasn't done something funny, she  _is_ something funny. At least to them.

If the right person were to ask Oswald, he barely knows Ivy. There's an understanding: being friends doesn't help either of them, not when they're at school. Being seen together at school is a death sentence. 

There aren't any rules about the occasional movie night, though. Ivy meets him at his apartment door, and they try and cook Jiffy Pop over a dumpster fire on the edge of the complex property.

As far as people at school know, he has no friends. No notable social life, either. So it's all moot. 

That is, until he ends up incidentally stopping an assault by sneaking into the girl's locker room to smoke. 

He comes in on someone towering over Barbara Kean, and while she doesn't look scared, she doesn't look quite confident either. Oswald smacks the guy over the head with a soccer cleat, then kicks him in the stomach for good measure. 

"What exactly are you doing in our locker room?" Barbara asks him, cool and collected in her cute gym uniform. Oswald gestures to the cigarette in his mouth as though it's obvious. "Thanks, I guess." 

"Um," Oswald removes his cigarette, realizing the opportunity he has, "I crave a boon."

"What  _boon?_ "

"I want a seat at lunch. No talking required," Oswald forces his voice to read as confident. Barbara starts laughing, her blond hair bouncing with each breath. "I can be useful. I— I can manipulate people. I see what others don't, I can  _help_ you. Just lend me your immunity." After a beat of silence, Oswald grasps at his last, and more concrete straw, "I also do pretty solid forgeries." 

Barbara considers him for a length of time and he doesn't shrink under her gaze. Now is not the time to shrink. As Lee and Valerie come walking in, seeking out their fearless leader, Barbara grabs Oswald's shoulders and turns him toward them.

"Ladies," she says, perfect nails tapping on his jacket, "I have a project." 

"You have such pretty eyes," Lee says, leaning in a little too close and plucking something hanging from his neck, "but why a monocle?" 

"Only one bad eye." The response is enough for Lee, her shoulders slumping back into her usual relaxed pose. 

"Aren't you in my biology class? You're the dramatic one." Valerie has one hand on her hip and one hand pointing at Oswald speculatively. 

"That's me."

"Nice show about the frog. The crying was a good touch, really got everyone going," she reaches into her purse for a nail file, pointing with it until she finally uses it.

It all seems close enough to an acceptance. 

They spend the rest of their gym period making Oswald over, making him presentable by their standards. More or less, Oswald and Valerie are the same size, so they put him in one of her cardigans. "You can have it," she says, smiling at her reflection in the mirror, "the color doesn't suit me. It seems to go better with your skin."

It takes some work, but Oswald worms his way into their circle. He chats with them in class, he starts dressing the way they tell him to. Oswald stops carrying around so many books and sticks to his single notebook, crafting the perfect image. 

Weeks pass, and at the end of spring break, Barbara makes it official. 

She lets him sit at their table. 

* * *

Ed has no interest in catering to the mythical, vapid set of girls that apparently run the school he's going to graduate from. He has no interest in catering to anyone, for that matter, but especially not them.

He's seen enough of them, their well made faces, their curvy figures— they're so loud. Their voices, their colors, their shoes, they're all so loud.

Lunch is cheeseburgers, tater tots, and a mysterious bread-like substance. Ed is minutes from dissecting it when he hears the notorious heels on tile. And unlike the usual fearful silence, he hears chatter.

"Who's that with Barbara?"

"Is that a guy? I didn't know they let guys in."

"There's no way— is that Cobblepot?"

The trio turned quartet has struck a stance at the opening to the lunchroom, their own public soapbox. 

Ed has learned the names— Barbara, Valerie, Lee. He's never heard Cobblepot. Not once.

"Hey," Ed hits the kid sitting next to him, some friendless freshman with fear in his eyes, "who's Cobblepot?"

"O-oh," the kid's eyes widden as he stammers, "that's Oswald Cobblepot. Last semester, he wore a jacket with 'Nancy Boy' written across the back."

From a table over, a junior pipes up, "He's vicious. One of those scum punk gays. I heard he kicked a guy's ass for saying his mother was a slut."

"So what?" Ed frowns, as if he's supposed to be impressed.

"He did it with an umbrella," a girl says, passing by, hovering to see Ed's reaction. "Beat the guy with an umbrella and kicked out three of his ribs. It was totally wicked."

"Never thought he'd be so campy," a smaller boy says, "hanging out with them is on a new level."

Barbara's heels demand attention, Oswald at her right side with his head held high. "Okay," she says, grinning, "lunchtime poll!"

Lee and Valerie sit down at their table while Barbara walks Oswald around the cafeteria, clipboard in hand. 

Barbara stops a few steps away fro a table, then leans in closely to Oswald's ear. "Wastoids first, always. They give the best answers." She strides up and leans herself over the table.

"Hi, Barbara," the table seems to be in unison, a single hive mind.

"You know the drill, losers," Barbara sounds so sweet when she talks, no matter what she says, "keep the anwers short but sweet. Ozzie?" 

Owald reads off the clipboard, practiced cadence just like he was taught. "If you died right now, what would your biggest regret me?" In preparation to scribble down answers, he wedges his monocle over his eye, frowns to keep it in place. 

The whole lunchroom goes by, some people skipped for the sake of causing emotional turmoil. 

"Some people need to be put in their places," Barbara says, coming back to Lee and Valerie at their table, "ignoring them works. Interaction with us makes them important. Deny it whenever you want." 

Oswald nods, clipboard still held tightly to his chest. Lee follows his eyes across the cafeteria, to the derilect corner where Ed sits, writing on loose leaf paper. 

"God, Oswald, drool much?" Lee teases him, tucking her hair behind her ear.

"Why don't you go ask him today's poll question?" Suddenly, Valerie is behind him, her voice in his ear.

"As if!" It's almost embarrassing, the way Oswald's voice breaks and goes flat.

"Come on," Barbara has her hand on his arm before he can pull away, as if he even wants to. She walks him over to the table Ed is glued to, though the underclassmen around him do right to scatter. "Hi," Barbara clears her throat, flips her hair, "I'm Barbara Kean. You're new. We have a question for you, from the yearbook committe. Well," she says, snickering, "Oswald does."

Ed smiles and Oswald feels like he'll never recover. The sound of Barbara's retreating heels makes him fear he's about to be blown over by a single breath. Oh, no.

"A question?" Ed asks, placing his chin on his tented hands.

"Yeah, um," with shaking hands, Oswald reaches down for his monocle, puts it up to his eye, "we ask a poll and publish the best responses in the yearbook," he waves the pen in his hand vaguely, then looks to the clipboard, "so— if you died right now, what would your biggest regret be?"

Ed hums, makes strange noises as he taps on his paper covered in assorted lines of information, written in a series of different types of math. "What would yours be?"

Surprised, Oswald looks up, squinting at Ed through his monocle, "Mine?" He looks lost in space until his focus solidifies on Ed, a dangerous grin threatening to spread across his face. "Not having asked your name,"

"Ooh," the smile that pulls across Ed's face is disarming, all charm and grace, "very smooth. It's Edward Nygma." 

"That's quite the name," Oswald says, drawing the pen into his mouth.

"And you're Oswald Cobblepot." The way his name sounds on Ed's tongue makes Oswald's heart flutter.

"You can call me Ozzie," he says with a shrug, "as long as I can call you Eddie." 

Ed laughs and leans back in his chair, unfolding his duster from around himself. "You can call me Eddie, but I'm gonna stick with Oswald. It has a certain  _elegance_ to it." 

Never before has someone opted not to call Oswald by a nickname— his given name has a foreign connotation that just  _isn't cool_ , and to have someone choose it instead of a truncation makes him feel  _wanted_. Just goes to show how little faith Oswald truly has in his own self worth. "Well," he clears his throat, trying to give Ed a good look over without being too obvious, "what would your biggest regret be, then?"

"I don't have one," he says, reaching onto the table to fold up his loose sheets of paper, tucking the single pen behind his ear. "To have regrets would mean I care what other people think."

"How  _very_ ," Oswald smiles and scribbles something down, then lets the monocle drop from his eye.

" _Ozzie_ ," the sound of Barbara's heels cuts through the dreamy stare Oswald has taken on, "we have to go. Come on."

"Right," he follows her, still looking at Ed as he leans back in his chair, giving Oswald a wave and what may be a salute, "see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for reading!
> 
> i can't quite put into words just how much this work means to me. it took me a long time to finish, which will probably seem very silly once the whole of it is posted. regardless, i had a ton of fun working on it, and i hope you guys will have just as much fun reading it. 
> 
> i'm setting this up to post once a week. since the work is already finished, it's just a matter of typing it out and posting it. 
> 
> i want to make a special note, as i will continue to every chapter, where i thank user speedybeams. they helped me create everything that this fic has become, they stayed up late nights with me and talked through ideas, and they pressed me to finish this project. thank you, love you, and i'm so glad i finally get to post this for you!
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](http://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	2. big fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald goes with Barbara to a college party and blows it, big time. When he and Ed cross paths, the both of them end up falling hard. It's the beginning of something very messy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  _dreams are coming true_   
>  _when people laugh, but not at you_   
>  _i'm not alone, i'm not afraid_   
>  _i feel like bono at live aid!_

Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock have been best friends since before they imagined being the most notable members of the football team.

When they graduate, Jim wants to join the military. Harvey, despite his somewhat soft figure and unpredictable sense of humor, wants to become a detective.

High school is the perfect place for Type A personalities like theirs to flourish. In their matching varsity jackets, the two of them are a single entity that is  _not_  to be fucked with. Sometimes, they can't help but take advantage of their power. They hassle people; tease those who aren't strong enough to fight back, simply reap the benefits of their strength and popularity.

And sometimes, they get a little ahead of themselves.

"Who does that guy in the jacket think he is, anyway?" Harvey can't keep the food he's chewing in his mouth, although it doesn't seem like he's making that much of an effort anyway.

"I think he's  _flirting_ with Oswald," after finishing his third carton of milk, Jim frowns, "do you think he's... you know— like Oswald?"

As uncharacteristic as the expression looks on him, Harvey considers the question thoroughly. "Let's go find out."

Descending upon Ed in his seat, it makes Jim seem much taller than his five feet and seven inches allow him.

"What did your boyfriend say when he found out you were moving to Gotham City?" Harvey leads in with his usual level of tact— it's still impressive how quickly he comes up with it all. 

"Better question;" Ed chirps, grinning eerily at Jim, "You will always find me in the past. I can be created in the present, but the future can never taint me. What am I?"

Harvey isn't known for his good temper, instead, he goes the predictable thing and knocks Ed's food off the table. "I think  _I_ asked you the question, riddle man." Leaning in close, Harvey puts his hand on Ed's shoulder; a palpable threat.

With Harvey so far up in his personal space, Ed is faced with an ultimatum: does he lean back, or does he take action?

By the doorway, Oswald looks back with interest. Ed decides that for today, he's a man of action.

Ed throws his head back and slams it into the bridge of Harvey's nose. The book he had in front of him becomes the best tool for bludgeoning, coming up and sending Harvey backward from a blow to the chin.

Jim comes over the lunch table with an almost inhuman lunge, but Ed has legs long enough to carry him just out of range of the punch that gets thrown. He goes in for a shove, taking Jim by the shoulders and bringing his head down to meet his knee a few times.

Fighting only works for Ed in the first few minutes; as long as nobody knows what to expect from him. After that, he's in trouble.

He decides to try and get out while he's still ahead. "History," he says, fitting his papers into his textbook and pushing his glasses up his nose, "we have history class together. It seemed fitting, Jim." 

Before someone can come to chastise him for the damage, Ed disappears. But not before running a hand through his hair and shooting Oswald one more smile.

Oswald looks to Lee and visibly gapes. They share a laugh. "I'd let him fight for me any day," he says.

"Oh, I bet."

* * *

When Oswald makes it home in the afternoons, he usually heads straight to his apartment to leave his books behind. Occasionally, his mother is sitting outside of her own apartment, waiting for him.

"Oswald, honey, sit down," his mother calls him over to the terrace of her apartment where she's set out snack food over her little tea table, "rest. How was your first day back after spring break?"

"I don't know. It was ok," Oswald fiddles with his sweater, disinterested. He reaches out and takes a cookie off of a tray, popping it into his mouth in one bite.

"Isn't the prom coming up?"

"I guess."

"Anyone you're interested in taking?" Gertrud presses and presses, desperate to hear  _something_ about her son's life.

"Maybe. There's kind of a  _dark horse_ in the running," he admits, considering a second cookie and ultimately deciding it's totally worth it. It seems like his mother may be wanting to ask him something else, but Oswald sits himself up and starts walking. "Great cookies,  _Schatz,_ but I need to motor if I want to be ready for that party with Barbara tonight." As he walks away, Oswald presses a kiss to his mother's forehead and she pats his hand lovingly. 

* * *

 

"Your first big party," Barbara says, parking her car with a careful hand, "don't fuck it up." Despite her cheery expression and glowing skin, Barbara is vicious, a death threat lingering on the back of her tongue. Oswald pales.

He feels out of place in the clothes they've dressed him in, nicer than anything he's ever owned, but somehow so much less comfortable. 

"Stop in, get some Corn Nuts," she says, gesturing with her hand at the corner store they've parked in front of.

"You eat Corn Nuts?" Oswald tilts his head but gets out of the car anyway, leaning back in to grab his wallet from the middle console, "What flavor?"

" _Fuck_ no, what do I look like? Get ranch."

Oswald rolls his eyes and drags himself into the corner store, making a genuine attempt to hold his head high and ignore the way the cold metal of Barbara's borrowed earring feels against his neck.  _It looks elegant,_ she said,  _don't fucking break it._ The little dagger has already worked a series of tiny pink dots into the soft skin that Oswald often works so hard to cover.

He thinks his mother would say he looks like a tramp if she were to see him.

The corner store smells like shoe polish and spilled gasoline, the tiny bell on the door almost silent from overuse. Oswald wanders the handful of aisles, seeks out the necessary bag and tries to find a snack candy that he can shove into his pocket for later.

Barbara says they're not allowed to eat the food made available at parties, to be seen eating makes them seem  _normal_ , and that's the worst thing that could ever happen. They can't be regarded as human, but rather something larger, something ethereal and beyond; something that can never die.

While he understands the concept, Oswald really wishes he could get his hands on just one of the fancy appetizers he's seen going around some of these smaller parties he's been dragged to. Real pate sounds so enticing to him.

"Greetings and salutations. You gonna get a Big Gulp to go with that?" The sound of Ed's voice sends the Corn Nuts and Hershey's Cookies and Cream bar flying from Oswald's hands, up into the air and back down, where they land in the shadow of Ed's duster. "Sorry," he picks the items up and hands them back to Oswald, coming just a little too close.

"You can make it up to me with a Slurpee," Oswald smiles and closes the space to take his snacks and brush past Ed toward the drink fountain. Ed meets him there before Oswald manages to limp the distance. "Oh, wow. You sure know your way around a 7/11."

The statement is mostly sarcasm, pointless banter to fill the space that Oswald isn't capable enough to fill with flirting. Still, he has yet to become comfortable with the layout of the shitty convenience store; Ed maneuvers it without looking, at some points it looks like his eyes could be closed. He's confident in his steps and Oswald is unbelievably jealous.

Ed regards Oswald's outfit with his own Slurpee in hand, Coke flavored and half finished. "Yeah, well," he says, putting the straw into his mouth and speaking around it, "it's like a second home. I spend a lot of time in 7/11's. There's one right around the corner, no matter where I move to."

With a subtle eye, Oswald watches the frozen drink go up Ed's straw. "Does your mommy know you drink that kind of stuff? Can't be good for your figure."

"When she was alive," he says, taking another sip, "my mother believed in indulgence."

_Holy shit._

Oswald balks, ripping open his candy bar and breaking off a pip. He chews on it slowly, thinking of what to fucking say to something like that.

"You never said what flavor you wanted," Ed pulls a cup out of the dispenser, all teeth in his smile, "lime?"

"No," he says quickly, wrinkling his nose, "cherry."

As Ed fills the cup, a long horn sounds in the parking lot. Barbara's voice ventures in from beyond, "Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot! Hurry  _up_!"

"I  _really_ don't like my friends," Oswald confesses, taking the cup from Ed gratefully. 

"I don't like your friends either." After Ed pulls a smile, he sucks back far too much Slurpee, far too fast.

"Hey, whoa," with a laugh, Oswald waves his hand at the other, "slow down. You'll get a brain freeze."

"That's the whole point," he says gravely, eyes screwed shut. "It's not all the time that you get to convince your mind you're dead— even if it's just for a second. It's  _liberating_."

"Mm," Oswald takes a small sip of his own drink, "sound a bit intense. Kind of like what you pulled in the caf the other day."

"The intense always makes an impression," Ed holds his Slurpee out, smiling when Oswald leans in without any direction, "try it."

Oswald has never been partial to Coke flavored anything, his mother doesn't like him drinking soda anyway. Regardless, he takes as long a sip as possible, drawing more and more in like the one time Ivy tried to teach him how to use the bong she got in Amsterdam.

"I don't really feel any—" the sensation feels like it starts in his nose, but Oswald's entire face goes cold in seconds. The pain swells behind his eyes. "Oh, son of a  _bitch!_ " He puts his fingers to his temple, pushing the cup back to Ed with a desperate groan.

They hear another honk from the parking lot, and Oswald practically trips over his shoes to pay the cashier and get the hell out. Ed follows close behind, even going to far to hold the door for Oswald upon their exit.

"Ooh," Oswald tucks his candy into the pocket of his blazer, "nice bike. I could never drive one," he gestures to his leg, visibly disfigured even beneath his baggy slacks.

"It's the single benefit of my father's work," Ed explains, patting his father's company logo on the chassis, "if something's in your way, he'll make your day," he mocks.

"That's  _your_ dad? In the ad with the volcanoes that spit dynamite?" Oswald can't stop himself from laughing childishly, cut short by Barbara's voice and car horn. "Sorry— god, it's seems like a job; being popular."

"Maybe you need a vacation."

"Yeah," he laughs, turning to the car, "maybe. I'll be seeing you. Won't I?"

"I hope so." The smile Ed gives Oswald nearly makes his bad leg go out beneath him. It almost takes out the good one, too.

* * *

The party is bad.

Oswald hasn't been to  _that_ many parties in his life, but he's heard enough stories to know what to expect.

It's held in some guy's house— probably his parents' house, if it can be judged by the wood paneling on the walls. Barbara says he goes to the local college, which explains a lot of what's unnerving Oswald. 

He always thought he'd be able to handle high school parties. To be surrounded by peers is far less intimidating than being surrounded by college students. 

The boy who takes Barbara's coat is distracted; between the amount of cleavage Barbara is showing and whatever his friend is whispering in his ear— this boy doesn't even think to say his name. 

Barbara puts a beer in Oswald's hand and promptly has him chug it.

"Don't taste it, you'll hate it. Don't let it drip," she coaches, doing the same and then blotting her lipstick, "don't get too drunk. Drink just enough to be fun." For some reason, Oswald feels like he should be taking notes. After he takes the shot someone has pushed into his hand, he realizes it would be a lost cause. " _He_ ," Barbara points to the friend of the boy from the coats, "is interested in you. Be interesting, be fun, I'll come get you for shots in an hour." 

In the hallway, Oswald stands far too close to the boy, listening to him talk. "It's so great to not have to ask a guy what his major is, you know?" Oswald doesn't laugh, just bites the rim of the cup he's holding. "So, uh. When you go to college, what classes do you think you'll take?" In response, he downs the rest of his beer and goes back for a third. 

At no point in the talk of this party was it mentioned that Oswald needed to flirt with some political science major who can't even style his hair. He makes a friend with a girl in the kitchen, does shots with her until her boyfriend comes and tugs her away.

Barbara does not return to get Oswald at any point; she has slipped away into a bedroom with the boy who took her coat. 

For a moment, in between the waves of haziness and confusion that are making it hard for Oswald to stand upright, he considers seeking her out. He knows just how much effort she puts into being cool, how much thought goes into every single action— he wonders if she's looking out for herself.

(She isn't. Barbara is in a bathroom, rinsing her mouth out and trying to forget the taste that has taken residence behind her teeth. The boy is talking from beyond the doorway, fixing his belt as Barbara spits water on the mirror in a gesture of vague defiance. She reapplies her lipstick, she moves on.)

Oswald finds an open window in another bedroom, somewhere he can lean out and blow the most of his cigarette smoke. He's convinced himself that's what it will take to sober him up, what it will take to dissolve the heavy feeling in his limbs.

"There you are," it's the boy from the hallway again, putting himself right next to Oswald on the arm of the couch, "I was wondering where you went." He puts his arm around Oswald's waist and tugs him down sideways. Oswald's cigarette goes out the window and into the alleyway below, unfinished and glowing; his stomach lurches as his body meets the couch cushions. 

"Get off," Oswald says, straightening himself up and repositioning his leg.

"Come on," he tries to clear some of the coats off of the couch, rethinking the choice halfway through, "hey, let's do it on the coats. It'll be great." Before Oswald can even get a word out, the boy is already untucking his shirt.

Oswald stands up with some effort, unsteady in his platform shoes. "You know, I have a speech ready for when my suitor wants more than I'm willing to give. Gee, blank, I had a really nice time—"

"Save the speeches for Malcolm X, baby. I just wanna get laid."

"You don't  _deserve_ my fucking speech," Oswald growls, tossing a pillow into the boy's face and storming out of the room. He wanders the house until he finds a cool spot in the hallway, pressing his warm forehead up against the wall.

Barbara finds him, finally. 

"What's your damage?" Barbara's voice is harsh against the swelling cotton sensation in Oswald's head, "I hear you're being a fucking bitch."

"Look, I don't feel so good, so can we  _please_ get out of here?"

"No," never before has Barbara seemed  _this_ vicious, like an apex predator, feral and inhuman, " _hell_ no."

In the moment, Oswald wants to think of something witty to say. He wants to use his poison tongue and rip Barbara apart for not standing by him, for bringing him here, for setting him up with a guy who isn't even  _cute_.

Instead, he leans over and vomits. 

He barfs up cherry Slurpee and various forms of alcohol, and god, it hurts. Only narrowly does he miss his and Barbara's shoes— thank god. 

When they make it to the alleyway outside, Barbara looks ready to commit murder. "I brought you up from  _nothing_ ," she tells him, pointing a red nail at his chest, "you were  _nobody_ before you met me. Before I turned you into our charity case— I did all of this for you, and you paid me in  _puke!_ " 

"Lick it up, baby," the words fall from his lips with conviction; it feels like the smartest thing he's ever said, "lick— it— up." 

Barbara stares, horrified. Slowly, she narrows her eyes and closes in on him. "I'll tell  _everyone_ about tonight. By Monday morning, you'll be dead. Move to Metropolis, move to another  _country_ , nobody in Gotham will give you another chance."

* * *

Halfway through the walk home, Oswald has drunkenly abandoned the thought of continuing to wear his shoes. Three in the morning, and he's carrying his shoes as he stumbles along the indeterminate distance between wherever he is and his apartment complex. 

He's pretty sure he knows where he's going. There's no doubt that he'll end up at home  _eventually_ , he just has to find something he recognizes and figure things out from there. 

It sounds much simpler than it really is, especially for Oswald's very drunk mind. The sobering effect of the argument with Barbara only lasted so long, now his vision is swimming and every step feels more difficult than it should. 

On the positive, his leg doesn't hurt. Not that much. 

With how late it is, every house he passes is dark. He considers the cars in the driveways, the sensible sedans, the sporty two-seaters. His jealousy peaks as he comes to pass a motorcycle in front of a particularly modern home.

_Wait._

That motorcycle is Ed's motorcycle; adorned with his father's business name and shined with the highest care. Better yet, there's a light on in the upstairs of the house. 

Reasonably, Oswald should  _not_ be walking into the back yard of what  _may_ be Ed's house. It's what he does, though.

He considers the light in the bedroom for a while, watching the movement within and trying to discern the sound that he's hearing. Maybe it's music, maybe it's not.

There's definitely posters on the wall— that's something teenagers do, isn't it? It's definitely not an adult behavior, which is what it takes to convince Oswald it's Ed's bedroom. 

Oswald throws a rock at the window. It surprises him when he hits the mark, stumbling back and staring up to see if someone comes to the edge. 

If his legs weren't so untrustworthy, he'd climb right up. That's romantic, or so he's heard, just showing up at someone's window. 

"Oswald?" From the open window, Ed looks like a savior. Oswald isn't sure what he expected to come of his— he didn't think Ed would even be there.

"Um," Oswald manages, looking up and finally stumbling and falling back, "I'm sorry. I'm— I think I'm drunk."

"Oh," retreating back into his room, Ed pulls his jacket on over his t-shirt, stepping into untied boots. He then slides out of his window, clambering down to meet Oswald on the lawn, "Do you need help getting home?"

"Please," he smiles up childishly, absolutely overwhelmed. To Oswald, Ed is the moon and stars, and it's almost foolish. It's  _definitely_ foolish. But he can't help himself from falling hard, simply because of Ed's extended kindness.

Ed pulls Oswald up and takes his shoes. He holds Oswald up with the other arm, somehow prince-like— at least, as prince-like as Oswald has ever been exposed to.

How sad.

"Where do you live?" As he walks, Oswald leans heavily into Ed's side, laying it on so painfully thick. "How did you know where I live, anyway?"

"Motorcycle," Oswald says, waving a hand back toward Ed's house, "do you know the Bird Cage? The apartment complex?"

"That's not so far," he says, smiling down at the boy slumped against him, "you don't drink a lot, do you?"

"Not really," one of Oswald's hands slides around Ed's back and holds onto his hip for balance, "I don't hold it in well."

"You threw up?"

"Practically on Barbara Kean's shoes." Ed nearly drops Oswald as he laughs, imagining the look on Barbara's face as she sees Oswald's vomit seep beneath her heels. "Don't laugh! She's mad at me!"

"Because of the barfing?" 

"No, because I wouldn't have sex with some  _stupid_ college guy," Oswald says, frowning. Desperately, Ed wants an elaboration, but he doesn't ask, "He wasn't even  _cute_." 

Along the way to Oswald's complex, he barfs twice more, once directly into a very well manicured flower bed. Ed laughs at that as well, holding Oswald up as he does so. 

"Okay, which one is you?" Ed heads for the main building of the complex but Oswald pulls him toward an oversized shed.

"I live in here," he says, meeting the door with his shoulder, fumbling with the keys, "it's nicer on the inside, I swear. It's like a little hotel room. Like a garage apartment with no garage," Oswald continues to babble as he throws the door open, stumbling through and into a makeshift kitchenette. The rest of the room is divided into a reasonable bedroom with a bathroom off to the side, and a closet full of tools on the far end by the doorway. It could be a nice little setup for a maintenance worker, but Ed can't quite imagine Oswald laying a hand on any of these tools, never in his life.

Oswald brushes his teeth and changes clothes, as best he can without help. The difficulty lies in the minute details; he gets his pants on fine, but the buttons of his shirt give him enough trouble that he just stumbles back out to his bed.

As he looks around, Oswald realizes Ed has left his shoes by the door. How thoughtful.

Even though Oswald doesn't ask, Ed reaches out and fixes the buttons, even the ones that have been done incorrectly. Oswald is certain that Ed can feel his frantic heartbeat, his desperate adoration turned into a rhythm. 

It becomes apparent to Ed, as he matches buttons with their respective holes, that Oswald is an extremely sloppy drunk. It's almost funny, considering the fact that he's part of the most image-based clique in the entire school. To see someone who isn't allowed to wear fur or leather dressed down in an unmatched pajama set? It's quite the juxtaposition. 

"You'll feel better if you get some sleep," Ed explains, pulling his hands back, "you've probably been up too long."

Oswald takes the cue but drives it in the wrong direction, leaning into Ed and pushing him back onto the bed. It's so much more comfortable having another person there with him, someone to hold onto as his head spins.

"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't really mean it. Oswald moves himself into the curve of Ed's arm, soaking up the warmth.

"You want me to stay?" It's not that Ed doesn't want to, because goddamn, he does. What surprises him is both how much he wants to, and the idea that Oswald may  _also_ want him to.

"I mean," even drunk, Oswald tries to backpedal and seem cooler than he really is, "if you're okay with that."

Everything about the moment is awkward, sweaty, and vaguely scented like Ed's shampoo and the beer someone taller than him had spilled in Oswald's hair. Ed shifts himself up just a little, inelegantly wiggling out of his duster. Despite the sensation of water in his head, Oswald moves for Ed to pull his jacket out from beneath him.

Never before has Oswald seen Ed in such a state of undress. They don't share their gym period, and even if they did, Oswald always skips it. With his leg, there isn't much they can ask him to do in terms of participation. He sits on the bleachers occasionally, watching people as they run laps. He's peeked in on Ed's gym period once before, but the boy wasn't even dressed in his uniform; instead Ed sat to the side, still in his jeans, t-shirt, and trademark long jacket, perched on the highest row of seats in the bleachers. 

Like this, with his arms uncovered and in his socks, Ed seems much softer. He's so much less intimidating. Oswald finds a comfortable place to set his head, oversized nose grazing up against the tiny curve of Ed's chest. His arm comes up and over Oswald's shoulders, skin meeting the back of his neck. Oswald can feel the unsettling texture of scar tissue on Ed's arm, ignores the way it scratches over his neck in favor of letting his hand trail over the graphic print on Ed's shirt. It's for some band, surely; if Oswald could see it better, he'd pay better attention to what it says. At this angle, it all looks like a mixture of colors, blended by the finger of a toddler.

Oswald's fingers find the hem of Ed's shirt and easily slide underneath, half asleep. He pads at Ed's meatless hip, squeezes curiously for something his body is mostly made up of, but Ed seems to lack. Without any hesitation, Oswald continues to prod and press and investigate, finding the tiny soft spots in Ed's body that's so well created out of sharp edges. 

"What are you doing?" Ed finally asks, when Oswald's hand has been properly warmed from the skin to skin contact, splayed out over Ed's stomach.

"I don't know," he admits, nosing closer. The hand he's pressed to Ed's stomach finds his side and grips it, more in a form of desperation than desire. 

The fact that Ed has, at no point, stopped him from touching, brings a new, sleepy confidence to Oswald. He leans up and presses a kiss to Ed's cheek, grateful.

It doesn't feel like something Oswald should mention in the moment, as Ed shifts himself to lean over Oswald and press a series of kisses, hesitant and slow, up the side of his neck; but Oswald has never kissed anyone before.

Oswald has barely ever been taken out on a date before. In fact, the man at the party was the closest thing Oswald has ever experienced to someone having an interest in him. Once, when he was younger, he and Ivy had gone out to a movie together, mostly to assuage their parents— it doesn't count, not to either of them, and they didn't even come close to kissing.

He definitely  _wants_ to kiss Ed. Oswald wants to kiss Ed, he wants to write Ed's name on the back cover of his notebooks, he wants to try Ed's last name with his own first and middle. Oswald wants to do it all.

The fear is that he won't do it right. 

By the time Ed's lips are pressed against Oswald's, he doesn't have time to consider if he's doing things right or not. So many things run through Oswald's head, and none of them focus on the way he's moving his lips, or the hand that has come to rest on the harsh curvature of Ed's cheekbone, or the wandering hand that finds Ed's fingers after climbing up his arm, over divots and alleyways and possible burn marks, twisting together into something far to comfortable to be incorrect.

Ed pulls back and doesn't realize that Oswald is trying to follow him, nosing over to speak into his ear. "You're not going to throw up on me, are you?" He laughs with a vague manic edge, almost frantic.

"I won't if you do all that again," Oswald tries to bargain, flushed and still very dizzy.

"Gross," he kisses Oswald's temple, "does that mean you were going to, if I didn't kiss you?"

" _Stop_ ," it comes out as a whine and Oswald tries to will Ed back to his lips with his mind, "you can't make fun of me. I'm drunk, remember? It's not fair."

"What are you gonna do, barf on me?" Ed snickers against the shell of Oswald's ear, pressing affectionate kisses to whatever skin he can find.

"Say barf again and I just might," he squeezes Ed's hand, sliding his other hand back to play with the hairs at the base of his neck. Ed squeezes his hand back and kisses him, so gentle and light that it feels like Oswald's heart may come out of his chest, ripped out and clinging by sinews and tendons— it's painful and he pulls Ed down against him to soothe it.

"Listen," Ed starts, speaking between kisses and shallow breaths, "you're drunk. I'm— I'm not going to—"

"This," confidence surges through Oswald's limbs, finds his ends and his fingers, tugging Ed back to his mouth, "this is fine. This is all I want."

There's a strange vulnerability in Ed's eyes when he looks down; Oswald is afraid he's said something to upset him. Ed just stares, looks over all the parts of Oswald's face, down and over to where their hands are linked together, Oswald's black painted nails digging tiny indents into the back of his hand.

"Okay," Ed sinks back into him, kisses Oswald's forehead, cheek, jawline, lips, "yeah, okay."

* * *

Ed isn't sure how he's supposed to sleep, not with Oswald  _there_ , so small and trusting. It scares Ed, just a little, how he can still feel Oswald against his lips.

The sunrise comes through Oswald's single window, right down into the bed. Ed can hear birds and he's certain that they have no right being so loud, but as long as they don't wake Oswald up, he couldn't care less. 

The whole of his left arm is asleep. Oswald has stolen the blood flow with the weight of his head, and Ed can't even bring himself to be annoyed.

Right after Oswald had fallen asleep, Ed had considered sliding out from beneath him and leaving; when he went to, he couldn't find it within himself.

Oswald looks at Ed like he put the planets in line, like he's the one that organized the whole universe. Ed finds it hard to walk away from something like that, finds it even harder to ignore his own fluttering heart when he knows Oswald thinks so highly of him. 

He feels like Oswald is the only one in the world who truly sees him as he is. Who he can become. 

Ed looks down at Oswald, watches him sleep and further make a mess of his hair. Little ends stick up and curl over his face, strands once expertly positioned now all haphazard and disorganized. 

Nothing about Oswald is elegant, and maybe that's why Ed is so drawn to him. The remaining eyeliner from the night before has smudged down to his cheeks, clumping together in the corners of his eyes. On the side of his neck, among a series of light hickeys, the marks from the earring he wore last night stand out; angry and pink against soft white mottled with purple spots. 

With some effort, Ed disengages his arm and slides down, rolling onto his side to be face to face with Oswald; watching him more closely. He reaches out and tries to rearrange hair, as if he knows where it all goes. It's a pointless endeavor, Oswald is probably only going to just take a shower and fix it all himself, but there's something comforting about trying.

It feels easy.

It feels right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading
> 
> this is one of my fav chapters, simply because it gets to be soft before things start getting really messy. that being said, upcoming chapters will come with warnings at the beginning when applicable. 
> 
> special thanks, once again, to speedybeams, who has never given up on me or this fic, despite me being the slowest writer in the history of the universe.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> _what's that? you say that oswald was confirmed hungarian in the most recent episode of gotham? so why is he german in this fic? because i'm tired and i'm not rewriting this fic, not now. sorry, y'all._


	3. me inside of me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald and Ed do something bad. Like, really bad. Somehow, they get away with it and walk away guilt free. Also, meet Jervis Tetch, the world's most insensitive teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _what's her final statement_  
>  _to a cold, uncaring planet?_
> 
>  
> 
> some specific content warnings for this chapter:  
> death, for starters.  
> trivialization of suicide  
> graphic descriptions of blood/death
> 
> have fun, thanks for sticking around!

Ed wakes up to an empty bed. 

It's normal for him to wake up to an empty bed, but that bed is usually his own. This bed is not his bed. This is not his room, these are not his blankets; where is his jacket?

There's a record playing in the kitchenette, player planted on the counter as close to the bathroom door as possible. The Cure plays, so loudly that Ed can feel it in his skull. 

Faintly, things come back into focus. Ed follows the sound of the record player, of the birds outside, of the water in the shower, Oswald's voice trailing quietly out of the bathroom.

He sings in the shower.

Ed drops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as he feels every pulse of blood that goes through his straining heart. He adores everything about this experience, this moment.

And then the bathroom door opens and Ed feels like he's caught, suspended in the air during free-fall. 

"You're awake," Oswald observes, sounding much more sober and capable, now in control of his limbs and purposeful in his steps. He has a towel wrapped around the upper part of his torso, in the middle of his ribcage, tied up so effectively that it doesn't fall when he goes to the tiny dresser he has pressed against the wall.

"Why are you getting dressed?" Carefully, Ed keeps his eyes on the upper half of Oswald's body, even as he shimmies boxers on underneath his towel, only shedding it afterward. 

"I need to go apologize to Barbara," he says sadly, picking up and looking at a series of different shirts. 

"I thought you were done with Barbara?" Ed rolls over to where Oswald is sitting on the edge of the bed, touching the bare skin of his back with a warm hand. 

"It was a nice fantasy," Oswald pulls a short sleeved button down over his shoulders, considering the pattern before buttoning it up, "but it's not so simple. I'm not strong and independent like you, Eddie."

With Ed ultimately incapacitated, Oswald stands and steps into a pair of clean pants, eyeing himself in the mirror a few times before accessorizing as he's been taught. 

"Let me come with," Ed finally says, sitting up and watching as Oswald puts on an extra layer, "like backup."

"Aw, how sweet," Oswald turns around to meet Ed as he stands, pressed against his chest. When Ed puts his hand on Oswald's hip, it feels like a kiss is the next step, so he takes it. 

It makes all of the muscles in Oswald's body go slack. He pulls back and reaches for Ed's jacket; well folded and set carefully on top of his dresser. 

* * *

"She always skips the Sunday morning trip to grandma's," Oswald explains, opening the door to Barbara's house, "even when she's not hungover. Barbara! It's me! I came to apologize!" 

From upstairs, Barbara's voice slowly comes through, "Make me something to drink and I'll consider it!" 

Oswald putters around her kitchen, confident as though he lives there himself. "What I wouldn't give to see her blow chunks," he says, reaching into the fridge, "you think she'll get sick if I put milk and orange juice together?" 

From beneath the sink, Ed holds up a bottle, "I'm more of a no rust buildup kind of guy." 

"Oh, come on, that'll kill her," Oswald watches as Ed pours the remaining blue liquid into a glass, then turns to his own mug. "Watch, I'll hack a phlegm globber into it; that'll fuck her up." Taking the mug up in his hand, Oswald snorts and hacks, trying to work up a sizable glob in the back of his throat. He spits something into the mug but it doesn't feel like enough, "Besides; she'd never drink something that looks like that." He stirs tomato juice and vinegar into the mug, careful not to splash. 

"Fine, we'll use a mug, then," he says, pulling a matching one out of the cabinet, taking the lid off to pour the drain cleaner into it. 

"You're not funny," as he finishes stirring his drink, Oswald frowns, turning to give Ed his most severe expression.

"Okay, okay," Ed puts the lid on the mug and sets it down, bringing his hands up in surrender, "I'm sorry." He draws Oswald in with arms around his waist, kissing him against the counter. Oswald reaches back and picks up a mug as he pulls away; the wrong mug. "Oswald," Ed watches Oswald walk away from him, following after before he can get too far ahead, "here. Let me carry that."

With drain cleaner in a mug, Ed follows Oswald up to Barbara's room. He holds it secure in his hands, keeps the lid pressed on tight. 

"Oswald," she greets from her bed, glaring as Ed enters, "and an extra from The Outsiders.  _Quelle surprise._ " 

"Look, Barbara, I'm sorry," Oswald's voice goes up an octave, an apologetic tone sounding almost subservient, "I think both of us said some things we didn't mean last night, and I—" 

"Did we?" Over the silence that mounts, Ed pushes the mug toward Barbara. "What is that?"

"Family recipe," he lies, "think of it as a peace offering." 

"One of you probably hacked a phlegm globber in it," Barbara sits up and fixes her hair with her classic red scrunchie, "I'm not drinking that."

"Damn," Ed plays his voice up, making himself sound genuinely disappointed, "I knew it would be too intense for her, Oswald."

Oswald shares a clueless look with Ed before looking back to the floor, watching Barbara's bare feet. 

"Did you think that was going to work?" Slowly, she closes in on Ed, coming closer and closer with single, purposeful steps, "Call me a chicken and expect me to drink it? Because you challenged me?" Ed makes a vague shrug, his smile on the verge of unsettling. "Just give me the damn cup."

Barbara takes the cup from Ed, making vicious eye contact and she knocks the contents back— had it been the raw egg, orange juice, milk, tomato juice, and vinegar combo that's sitting on the counter downstairs, she may not have been caught the taste. 

This, though, the taste sticks to the roof of her mouth. It creates a film on the inside of her throat, closes it up from the inside so she can't breathe. Barbara chokes on air, stumbling to Oswald, lips tinted blue with drain cleaner. 

"What did you do?" The words can barely make it out, lingering in the air as Barbara falls, face first into her glass coffee table. It all shatters beneath her, tiny shards embedding in her face, in the pads of her fingers, shredding her pretty nightgown. 

Barbara Kean is super-duper, definitely, without a doubt, very dead. 

"Holy fuck," Oswald sinks, knees bowing as he watches blood pool around Barbara slowly, matting her hair, "oh, my god. Oh, my god. I just killed my best friend." 

"And your worst enemy." 

"Same difference." With little focus, Oswald finds the stool to Barbara's vanity and sits on it, staring at her. Ed paces the room, almost frantic; he picks up books and sets them down, scanning pages. "They're gonna have to send my SAT scores to Blackgate."

"They'd have to send mine to Arkham," Ed isn't even looking at Oswald as he speaks; he doesn't get to see the confused and vaguely horrified expression Oswald is throwing his way. "Murder is a crime. But what if this isn't a murder— what if she killed herself?" 

"She didn't, though, we—"

"Stop. Listen," Ed comes over and puts a hand on Oswald's shoulder, showing him a book from Barbara's bookcase, "If I underline some choice sections of The Bell Jar, we can make this look like a suicide. Easy." Oswald nods and turns to watch Ed speed read through the pages.

"I—" Oswald reaches into a drawer in Barbara's vanity, pulls out personalized stationery and a pen, "I can do her handwriting."

"You can?" When Oswald nods, Ed bounces up and comes to his side, "You're amazing." The kiss Ed plants on Oswald makes him feel alive, makes him feel so desired, it turns him to goo in Ed's hands.

Oswald starts to write, drafting what he can only imagine Barbara's suicide note would look like— perfect. "You may think what I've done is shocking," he says aloud, adding flourishes to the letters, "but if anyone had truly known me, it wouldn't be."

"My looks where a prison that left me with a myriad of scars that would never heal," Ed offers up.

"She wouldn't use myriad."

"It's the last time she'll ever write, she'll want to cash in on all the big words she can."

"It's just— she missed it on last week's vocabulary quiz," Oswald puts the pen to paper, starting a sentence without hesitation. 

"It's a testament to her failures in life, then. A representation of all she's done wrong and can only achieve in her final moments," the frantic edge is back in Ed's voice, very dry and breathy. 

"You're right," he pulls the words out, following Ed's previous dictation. "You're pretty good at this, have you done this before?" 

"Yeah," Ed doesn't laugh, "once or twice. This is easier, though, doing it for someone else." 

Oswald reigns in his emotional response, instead scribbles faster. "No one thinks a pretty girl has feelings. I weep for everything I fail to be. I am more than just a source of hand-jobs. I died like I lived; alone."

"Ooh," Ed kisses Oswald's cheek and taps the end of the paper, "do a fancy signature. With the swirls."

When they leave Barbara's house, Ed helps Oswald hop fences and slink behind houses, and it's easy for him to forget they've just committed a murder.

Or maybe, he isn't trying to forget. Maybe he doesn't need to. Maybe this isn't so bad. As long as they don't get caught, Oswald thinks this feels pretty okay. 

* * *

Mister Jervis Tetch is the English teacher for the senior class. He's obsessed with poetry, and may very well be insane— if you ask any of his students, they'll say so.

He also speaks exclusively in rhymes. Not like well built sonnets but more like a mad lib gone wrong; a man so enamored by words that they may make him lose his mind one day.

He's a bit of a hippie. Sort of. He's convinced people don't feel enough and think too much, and he'll do anything to get some attention. Everything he does is a holy mission, vying to support the greater good. Or so he claims. 

The principal of Gotham's major high school is not as sentimental. 

"I'm not sending these kids home just for a suicide," he says, glaring across the lounge at the staff members he's assembled. 

"Barbara Kean is not your ordinary suicide," the gym coach offers, "she was very popular."

"Our children are dying," Tetch has twitching fingers against the tabletop, "they're out there, crying. We shouldn't be sending them away! We should be taking advantage of this day." 

"And for what, exactly?"

"For healing. For feeling."

"Right," the principal says, "thank you, Mister Tetch. Call me when the shuttle lands." The entire break room chuckles, discrediting Tetch as he sinks back into his chair, "Now, is this Barbara Kean— is she a cheerleader?"

"No," a counselor pushes himself into the conversation, "that would be Leslie Thompkins."

"Damn, I'd be willing to go half a day for a cheerleader." 

* * *

Oswald lingers on the edge of the ladies locker room, eyes very purposefully focused on the floor. How he's managed to continuously sneak in without being reported on or caught is beyond him, but he's got bigger problems. 

"It's unfair," Lee says, fixing her skirt and slamming her gym locker shut, "it's so unfair. We should get a whole week off, not just an hour."

"Write the school board," Valerie says through the gum she's chewing, popping a bubble loudly. 

Lee opens Barbara's locker, looking mournfully at the contents within. Several scrunchies and various compacts and lipstick tubes move around as she pulls out a watch, "Look, she left one of her Swatches," the tiny colorful thing flies through the air when Lee tosses it at Oswald, "she'd want you to have it, Ozzie. She always said you couldn't accessorize for shit." 

"Sorry about your friend," a voice emerges up alongside Oswald, bringing with it the smell of weed and smoke, "I thought she was just your typical, airhead bitch. Guess I was wrong. We all were." The stranger walks away without another word, taking the smell with her. 

"What a waste," Valerie says, bordering on sarcastic. "Oh, the humanity."

Oswald walks out from the lockers and toward the showers, transfixed on a single gray tile among the sea of pink. He latches the watch around his wrist, feels pain when the plastic edge starts to cut into him.

"Ozzie?" Lee calls after him but stays rooted to her spot before her own locker. 

He stands beneath the closest shower head he can find, turning the cold water on full force. The water hits him like glass, like the shards that exploded out from beneath Barbara's body when she met the coffee table; it hurts. 

For a while, all Oswald can do is stand there, makeup running and hair going flat beneath the stream of water. He holds the sides of the shower stall, staring down at the drain where the water circles and escapes. When he finally does find himself again, Oswald is smiling. 

* * *

"I have copies of what Barbara wrote;" Tetch says, handing a stack of papers to a student, "I mimeographed her suicide note."

Students lean forward in their seats, morbid curiosity overtaking them. From the back of the room, Oswald leans further back, avoiding the whole of the conversation.

"While you read that, we should talk about what you all are feeling," Tetch scrawls a few quotes from Barbara's note on the chalkboard, "I imagine that this suicide has sent many of your reeling." Nobody offers anything up, which is unsurprising. "Who would like to begin? Should we just dive right in?"

The girl that spoke to Oswald in the locker room inclines her head and starts to speak, "I heard it was gross. She drank some all purpose cleaner and just—" the girl makes a terrible sound, like an implosion underwater. 

"Now, let's not revisit the coroner's report, or we'll have to cut this discussion short."

"Um," a boy speaks up from the front of the room, holding his copy of the suicide note close to his chest, "Barbara and I used to date, but she said I was boring. Now I realize I really wasn't boring, it's just that she was dissatisfied with her life."

From his seat, Oswald chokes out a laugh. He laughs at just how  _full_ of shit the boy at the front of the room is, how someone can take a tragedy and make it an opportunity to soothe their fractured ego. When the class turns to look at him, Oswald crumbles down in fake tears. The eyes quickly leave him.

"Are we going to be tested on this?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all, thanks for reading 
> 
> i want to point out a few things that are relevant from this point on.  
> i'm still going to be putting content warnings at the top of each chapter, as is applicable. (i wanna be sure everybody is safe!)  
> but heathers has a lot of.... unsavory themes. and one of those is the trivialization of suicide, which can be really triggering for a lot of people! and that theme is only going to become more prevalent throughout this work, and i want to be sure people are aware of that, because i'd hate to think someone may end up reading something that makes them feel badly. 
> 
> okay! enough of that! 
> 
> special thanks and unending love for user speedybeams, my savior in the abyss that is creating content
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](http://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	4. blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed's dad is super weird and Oswald isn't sure what to make of it. (He won't be speaking at Ed and Oswald's wedding, that's for sure.) There's a funeral, cow tipping, and the unearthing of a rumor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _once you were geeky and nerdy_  
>  _but they knew you're dirty_  
>  _you've set them on fire_  
>  _whatever you require, they'll do!_

In the living room of Ed's home, he sits on the couch with his arm around Oswald. News coverage blares, a reporter giving the microphone to none other than Valerie Vale.

"I'll never forget all the fun we had together. Like, when we were thirteen, we went and got our ears pierced at the mall together, and—" Ed switches channels, where he finds Valerie, once again. "She was so much fun, she would always be there for me when I needed her to be. I can still hear those late night talks on the phone—" The channel changes again, and now Valerie is speaking Korean, unclear to both Oswald and Ed until she says the term "Corn Nuts."

"Oh, my god, turn it off." Oswald paws at the remote in Ed's hands, his shoulders loosening once the screen goes black. "How many networks did she run to?"

"It seems Barbara Kean is more popular than ever now," Ed says, turning his head to face Oswald and give him a thoughtful look.

"Hm," his hand runs through Ed's hair lazily, separating the greasy strands from one another, "scary stuff."

From beyond the gray walls and the series of modern sculptures with moving boxes mixed in, a man who looks too much like Ed emerges, dressed in a tracksuit with matching shoes. Oswald disengages from Ed quickly, sits up straight. Ed's arm doesn't move from over Oswald's shoulders. 

"Hey, son, didn't hear you come in," Ed's tone is full of humor, but comes with an additional edge that can be felt in his tensed muscles. 

"Oh, well, hey, dad," his father returns the tone, just as unreadable as his son. It seems that's where Ed gets it, then. "How was work today?" When Ed nods at the question, his father walks around the couch and steps onto his treadmill, "It was miserable." The treadmill beneath him beeps, picking up speed, "Some damn tribe of withered old bitches doesn't want us to terminate that fleabag hotel." Oswald looks at Ed cluelessly, to which Ed merely gives him a small shrug, "All because Carmine Falcone and his  _gang_ once took a shit there. This is  _just_ like Kansas. You remember fucking Kansas, Edward?" 

"Yeah," Ed seems to bristle under the attention, "that was the one with the wheat, right?"

"It was the Save The Memorial Oak Tree Society," his father says proudly, chuckling, "I showed those fucks."

"You did. Thirty of those Fourth of July fireworks attached to the trunk—" as his tone seems to border on almost  _too_ harsh, Ed sinks back down, "Arraigned but acquitted." 

" _Gosh, pop,_ " once again, his father speaks playfully, unclear and almost menacing, "I almost forgot to introduce my boyfriend."

"Oh." Now, it's Oswald's turn to bristle. He considers exit routes and items with which to defend himself. Ed pats his shoulder, entirely unaware. "Oswald, this is my dad. Dad, Oswald."

"Uh, hi," Oswald puts his hand out nervously, only getting a wave back before he eventually pulls his arm back in.

"Hey, dad," Ed's father says, smirking, "can my little friend stay for dinner tonight?"

"No, no," quickly, Oswald stands up and gives his most congenial smile, "I can't. My mom's making her goulash tonight— couldn't miss that for the world."

"How nice," at first, Ed actually sounds pleased to hear about Oswald's mother's cooking, "last time I saw my mom, she was waving from a library window in Texas," his voice grows harsh, going high and frantic as he looks over to his father. "Right, dad?"

Ed's father turns his treadmill off, outright glaring at his son, "Right,  _son_."

"Ah," Oswald blinks, gathering up his sweater and seeing himself to the door, "right."

* * *

As he's going out the next day, Oswald's mother is settled down on her terrace with a series of desserts he's never learned quite how to pronounce. 

"Come sit down,  _libeling_. Take a break," Gertrud reaches out and offers him a dessert, smiling at him. "How did the first day of school after Barbara's suicide go?"

"I don't know. It was okay, I guess." Oswald takes the dessert and sniffs it before putting it in his mouth. Peach.

"Terrible thing," she says, even though she doesn't mean it. She never liked Barbara. "So, will I get to meet this dark horse prom contender?" 

"Maybe," with a pastry in his mouth, Oswald struggles to speak and not lose any of it. "Great streusel,  _Schatz_ , but I need to get going if I want to make it to the funeral on time." Like always, he kisses his mother's forehead and pats her shoulder before walking off, finest jacket slung over his shoulder. 

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Barbara's funeral is as beautiful as she was. The flowers are all the finest shade of pink, her body wrapped in the elegant prom dress she'd bought so many months prior. Her wrists are adorned with almost childlike charm bracelets, a single ring on her finger, likely from her parents. It's an open casket service because it simply  _has_ to be; everyone gets to see Barbara's ethereal beauty one last time. 

"I blame not Barbara, but rather a society that tells its youth that the answers can be found in their magazines," the man leading the service is sweating, even though it's barely the end of spring and a chill hasn't quite left the air. "We must pray that the other teenagers of Gotham City know the name of that righteous dude who can solve all their problems," he looks across the room, manages to stare into the eyes of every person sitting throughout, "it's Jesus Christ, and he's in the book." 

Together, in the back of the church, Oswald leans a little closer into Ed's shoulder and squeezes the hand he's holding. Both of them are holding in a laugh, letting out the pent up air when people stand to view Barbara in her casket.

After standing over Barbara's dead body and pretending to pray, Oswald slinks away back to where he sees Lee, fixing her hair in the reflection of the baptism pool. "Ozzie," she says, looking in her purse for her lipstick, "what are you doing tonight?"

"I don't know,  _mourning_? Maybe watch some tv. Why?"

"Well," Lee leads Oswald out of the church, stepping out into the sun, "Jim asked me over tonight, but he's having the rest of the football team over, too. I don't wanna go alone," she trails off, twisting a strand of her hair between her fingers.

"Listen, I've got something going with Ed, and—"

"Put Billy the Kid on hold for tonight? Please?" Her perfectly manicured smile breaks open as she reaches to touch Oswald's arm, "I'll be your best friend."

Begrudgingly, Oswald follows her over to his mother's car, the awful sedan he tries to keep out of at all times. On the other side of the church, Jim and Harvey are starting a fight with an underclassman after being told to "sit on it and spin." The sounds of the fight come all the way over to the parking lot that Oswald and Lee are standing in. As Oswald looks to his bag for his keys, Ed's motorcycle slips by and out onto the road.

"Look," Lee tries again, "Jim has been really nice recently, consoling me and stuff. It'll be really very. I promise."

"Okay, okay," he smiles back at Lee now that he has his keys, "as long as it's not one of those nights where they get shitfaced and take us to the pasture to tip cows."

* * *

To Lee's defense, the night hadn't  _started_ at tipping cows.

The night had started with the most of the football team, and a few other people from around Gotham, congregating at Jim's house to drink and talk about Barbara. It had seemed innocuous enough, and Oswald is always more than happy to sit idly by if it means he can keep an eye on Lee. 

As the night goes on, however, people get far too drunk and rowdy. Eventually, Jim and Harvey want to go tip cows and Lee follows, which means Oswald follows. 

There could be worse nights, he supposes.

With only a little alcohol on his lips, Oswald stands beside Lee in a field as Jim and Harvey put heavy drunken consideration on which cow to tip. If Oswald didn't know just how terribly rude Jim and Harvey could be, he'd find their drunken joy over a sleeping cow endearing. It's genuinely the most unadulterated joy he's ever seen and he wonders if he'll ever be able to feel that alive in his whole life. 

"Dude, dude,  _listen_ ," Jim holds onto Harvey's varsity jacket, snickering, "you think he's sleeping?"

"Ye-yeah, he's gotta be," Harvey burps loudly,"look. It's night time, Jim. That's when cows sleep."

"Right," the two of them share a laugh as they reel back. "Cow tipping's the fucking  _greatest._ "

"On the count of three." 

The cow does tip, surprisingly, but it also falls and splashes mud all over Lee and Oswald. Jim and Harvey make no attempt to help, and while Oswald doesn't expect any help for himself, he does expect it for Lee.

Instead, Jim is taking Lee up the hill and kissing her in the grass, sloppy and uncoordinated. Occasionally, Oswald calls out and asks if she's alright, and she always responds with the affirmative, so there isn't much else he can do. He tries to inch away, over the fence of the pasture and up to a tree where he can sit and have a cigarette. 

"Theo Galavan said you bl—blew some college guy at a party," Harvey's voice scares Oswald straight up off of the tree, nearly dropping his lighter in the mud.

"What the  _fuck_ , Bullock," he seethes, lighting his cigarette, "you can't sneak up on people like that. Or trust anything Theo Galavan says."

"Jim sa-said, people can't be sluts unless they're girls—" again, Harvey belches, "but Gala-Gal-Galav—  _Theo_ says you're a slut because you're one of  _them_."

"And you believe him?"

"He had a  _lot_ of details." As Harvey stands up off of the ground and stumbles back toward the pasture fence, he looks over Oswald as though he knows what every inch of his body looks like. Oswald knows he must be just imagining it, but it feels like Harvey's eyes are stalling over the most intimate parts of him; the scar on his left hip, the birthmark on the far right side of his ribcage, the burn from chemistry class in sophomore year, all of the freckles that hide on the space between his shoulders. He feels undressed and he  _hates_ it.

"Fuck off, Bullock. Get lost." To Oswald's delight, he listens, and falls face first into the grass on the other side of the fence.

Before Oswald can take a soothing drag off of his cigarette, he hears feet behind him. Ed emerges from behind the trees, backlit by the moon and nothing else— Oswald thinks he looks like an angel in a filthy jacket. 

"What the fuck is this?" Ed has his own cigarette, smoke dancing in the moonlight around him.

"Doing Lee a favor," he explains, struggling to get up the inclined ground on his bad leg, "she didn't want to be alone. I tried to tell you at the funeral but you drove off."

"Another Barbara," the name comes out of Ed with smoke and a laugh, too cynical for Oswald to accept.

"Lee isn't like that. She's nice, she's got a good heart," he drops his cigarette and crushes it into the ground, "I didn't have to come. I just— I wanted to make sure nobody hurt her."

"I'm sorry," Ed tries, although it doesn't completely sound like he means it, "I'm just feeling a little superior tonight. I mean," his voice hitches up, makes a sound that Oswald is genuinely a little unnerved by, "seven schools in seven different states, even more in just as many cities, and the only thing that's different is my locker combination." With what remains of his resolve, Oswald levels Ed with a glare. "And you. Our love is god. How about we get a slushie?" Ed steps down into the mud and wraps an arm around Oswald's middle, ready to help him up and out.

"Thank you, Eddie," he says, once they reach the motorcycle. Oswald leans in and kisses Ed before he can think not to; his entire body feels like it's floating when Ed pushes him up against the motorcycle and kisses him back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
> i don't have much to say regarding this chapter, except for an apology about the lateness of it. i'm not living at home right now, so on occasion wifi can be a bit troublesome. 
> 
> this chapter feels very short. it might just be because i'm so used to sitting down and writing until i don't want to anymore for a fic, rather than writing a whole work and then dividing it into chapters.  
> idk, it's strange! sorry if this chapter feels unfairly short, or something.
> 
> special thanks to speedybeams for keeping me alive while writing ed's dad slowly killed me. you're the realest.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](http://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	5. our love is god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Victors, heads of yearbook committee and gossip. A fight breaks out over something that's being said about Oswald— the fate of Jim and Harvey is finally set in stone. Oswald tries to figure out what Ed means, half of the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _we can start and finish wars_  
>  we're what killed the dinosaurs  
> we're the asteroid that's overdue  
> the dinosaurs will turn to dust  
> they'll die because we said they must.   
> 

In the media classroom, students file in and out as a select few huddle around a table. There's only a few months before their year ends, it's the definitive crunch time for those in the yearbook committee. The classroom itself smells like stress; nervous sweat and coffee. 

The two heads of the yearbook committee share a name, Victor, although they share practically nothing else. Victor Zsasz is the only person in the school who could likely rival Oswald for his notable goth brand; he lacks eyebrows and hair, as well as a sense of tact. He won't tell anyone what happened to his hair because he says he likes the element of mystery that it imposes upon him. Really, he's just dramatic.

Alternatively, Victor Fries is soft-spoken and moderately well mannered. He often doesn't completely understand social cues, but he tries his best. His girlfriend, Nora, is a nurse's office regular and someone that Oswald has spent plenty of time with in there. The fact of the matter is that Victor Fries is practically defined by how much he loves Nora, most everything else he does is just something to fill the time when he can't be with her. Oswald finds it a bit creepy, but Nora seems so very happy that nobody can really complain.

"The head of the Foodless Fund isn't going to like being shoved in beside the Taco Bell coupon,  _Victor_ ," looking down at the backlit table, Zsasz' forehead puts off a glare, "he's going to think we're belittling him."

"I'm not _belittling_ the Foodless Fund,  _Victor_ ," Fries smirks, rearranging a page spread on the tabletop, "it's just that we're talking teen suicide here. Ask anyone, the number one song on the radio today is "Teenage Suicide, Don't Do it" by Big Fun," he fusses with his pictures and tires another arrangement, "I mean, honestly, Gotham  _finally_ got one of these things, and I'm not gonna blow it."

"Just don't give Barbara the front page," Zsasz' voice has a drawl to it as he slinks away behind a monster of a computer, "that'll stroke her ego, even in the grave." 

Oswald breaks through the door, wearing his nicest shoes and his Nancy Boy jacket from the year previous, feeling powerful. "Hey, Victor—"

"Hello, Oswald."

"Hey, Os."

"I came to check up on this week's lunchtime poll topic," he explains, walking up to the table and sliding up next to Fries. 

"Oh, don't worry about that, Oswald, sit down," Fries leads Oswald to a stool and ensures he sits down. "That funeral yesterday must have been rough, huh?" It sounds so coached, probably something Nora had to teach him to say, but Oswald does appreciate the effort. 

"Yeah, rough."

"We were wondering," Fries powers on, twisting a loose string on his cardigan, "if you had any poems or artwork that Barbara did that we can put in the Barbara Kean yearbook spread."

"The  _what_?" Oswald realizes, far too late, that his voice must have been loud enough to draw the entire classroom's attention, because everything has gone quiet. 

"Well, take a look," he leads Oswald over to the spread itself, gesturing to the top right, "it's a two page layout with her suicide note right here in the corner," Fries looks to Oswald for validation but is met with abject disgust, "I— it's more tasteful than it sounds."

"I don't know, Vic," for added effect, Oswald looks up at him, holding eye contact, "this stuff just leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

In the background, someone giggles, "Like that night at the party, Oswald?"

Oswald looks to Fries for some context and simply gets a confused shrug as he hears more laughter. "Excuse me?" it sounds like a threat, which it rightfully should, "I don't get it."

"Well, you did that night. Harvey told us about your night with those boys from the technical school."

"Yeah, and? I left the guy drunk on a bed of jackets, then puked in his friend's hallway," Oswald's voice is all venom and every inch of his barely five and a half foot tall self is seething with rage.

"I don't know," the girl says, clutching her books proudly, "Harvey had some  _good_ details."

"Courtney," Zsasz' voice perks up from behind the computer, even though he doesn't stand, "shut the fuck up, please."

"Oh, no," Oswald growls, advancing, " _don't_ shut up. I'd like to know exactly what this  _bitch_ thinks I did."

It seems that the girl, Courtney, has something else she intends to say. When Zsasz comes up behind Oswald and grabs his bag, she closes her mouth. "Come on, Oswald," Zsasz puts a hand on his shoulder, "let me show you the lunchtime poll topic."

"Victor," Oswald starts, walking with him to the door, "what the  _fuck_?"

"While I rarely ever listen to people like Harvey Bullock," he straightens out the sleeves of his jacket, almost entirely disinterested as Oswald looks on, horrified, "but he said that Theo Galavan said he saw you blow a guy, and get fucked by the same guy, at the party you and Barbara went to right before she killed herself." 

"Oh, my god," the pitch in Oswald's voice goes up two whole octaves, "that son of a bitch!"

* * *

By the time Oswald gets to lunch, everyone is looking at him. The people who once thought that they couldn't touch Oswald now think themselves above him, and who else is at the head of it all but Harvey Bullock and Jim Gordon. As though he wants Oswald to hear, Harvey repeats the gruesome details that he's been fed by Theo Galavan. They say Oswald begged for it, they say Oswald thanked the guy when he was done, they say Oswald didn't care that there wasn't a condom— When Oswald hears Harvey say, "You know, for a cripple, the guy says he takes dick like a real champ," he breaks. He stalks to the back corner of the cafeteria and takes refuge next to Ed, clings tightly to his hand and cries into his shoulder because this  _cannot_ be happening. 

Ed doesn't like this. He doesn't like to see Oswald crying and he sure as hell doesn't like hearing people talk theoretical details about his boyfriend. It just feels wrong. It's in Ed's nature, though, to be impulsive. He kisses Oswald's cheek, walks right up to Harvey Bullock, and punches him square in the nose. "You seem really obsessed with Oswald recently," he throws another punch, much less impressive, "why is that?"

This is where Ed falls victim to someone stronger than him. This is where Jim takes Ed by the shoulders and slams him to the ground, while Harvey crouches over him and gets a solid few punches in on his stomach. Oswald, finally looking up from where he's been crying into a lunch table, runs over and desperately wishes he'd brought his cane to school, if only just to beat someone over the head with it. He manages to will Jim and Harvey off of Ed by simply begging, putting all of his effort into helping Ed into the nearby boys restroom but not before being called a slut by just about everyone who passes him. 

Ed stays close to the floor in the bathroom, folded up and small. Part of Oswald screams to help him, the other is frozen, and he still can't find words when he drops down next to Ed and takes his face into his hands.

"Are you okay?" are the first words out of Ed's mouth and suddenly Oswald has no resolve. He starts crying again, this time uglier and more distraught. 

"I'm— I'm fine, nobody hurt me, I— are you—" Oswald chokes on his voice and shudders, "I'm so-sorry for all the waterworks, I—"

"They made you cry," Ed observes, reaching up to wipe away tears that Oswald is aggressively trying to push away himself. 

"This— this is stupid, I'm sorry—" 

"No, no," he wraps his hand around Oswald's, threads their fingers together and pulls it close to his chest, "go on and cry," Ed considers Oswald for a moment, a dangerous light building behind his eyes, "you know— you are the only thing that's right about this broken world."

"Sh-shut up, Eddie, I—" Oswald's voice dies again and he lets Ed hold onto him, lets Ed hold him to his chest like a terrified child. 

"I'll take you home, we can figure out what to do then, okay?" 

"Okay," he tries to steady his crying but ends up coughing, "thank you."

"Mm," Ed kisses the top of Oswald's head and leans back to look at him, "our love is god."

* * *

Later that night, Oswald sits on his bed with Ed across from him, clunky phone in hand. As the ringing goes in his ear, Oswald twirls the cord around his finger, a testament to his youth. "Hi, Jim? It's Oswald," the voice on the other end of the line goes quiet before building back up, "yeah, I didn't expect to be calling either. I guess my emotions got the better of me." Ed traces lines and shapes into the blanket on Oswald's bed, builds flowers and trees and entire cities. "Look, I— I wanted to apologize. In person. I feel  _awful_ about what Ed did and I just— do you think we could meet? Before school tomorrow?" On the other end, Jim sounds hesitant, but very quickly gives in. "Meet in the woods behind school? That way you guys won't be seen with me. Around dawn, okay? Don't forget Harvey." Oswald hangs up the phone quickly, giggling.

"What did he say?"

"He agreed, and he thanked me for calling. What a fucking square," he puts the phone and its cradle back down on his bedside table, stretching his legs out in front of him. "So, what's the plan?" Ed pushes a gun into Oswald's hands, nonchalant as he pulls another from the waistband of his jeans. 

"Do you have the suicide note I asked you to write?" he fishes around in his pockets for something else, tossing cigarettes and lighters out onto the bed. 

"Yeah," Oswald produces it, as well as the paper he used to copy Jim's handwriting from, "I don't see the point of a suicide note if we're just going to be shooting them with blanks, though."

"We're  _not_ going to be shooting them with blanks, this time," Ed won't look up at Oswald as he loads bullets into a gun.

"You can't be serious," when Ed doesn't answer, Oswald sets his gun down slowly, "look, my ill-planned Bonnie and Clyde days are over, we need to figure—"

"Wait a second," Ed wraps his hand around the crook of Oswald's elbow, pulling him back, "just wait a second. What language are you taking this year?"

"French."

"Alright," he smiles, so perfect, "these are  _ich lüge_ bullets. My grandfather stole a bunch of them back in the second world war. They're like tranquilizers; they break the surface of the skin just enough to cause a little blood, but no real damage."

When Ed speaks German, he butchers the accents and the tone of the letters. Oswald knows this, because his mother is a German immigrant. His mother teaches him German terms and words all the time, she speaks to him in German, her recipes are written in German, her grocery lists are in German— everything. German.

Ed doesn't know this. Ed has overlooked this single possibility. 

 _Ich lüge_. Oswald struggles to put the words to English, knowing good and well he's never heard it in history class before. It  _feels_ like Ed is lying— it hits Oswald like a truck.  _I'm lying._

Ed is lying to him, and has admitted it in German.

"So," Oswald starts, parsing together the story Ed has told him, "it looks like the person's been shot and killed and  _really_ they're just lying there, unconscious and bleeding?"

It's hard to be mad at Ed when his face breaks open in that puppy-dog grin, when he looks at Oswald like he's the only person in the universe that understands him. "Right! See," Ed pops up from the bed and paces the tiny space available at the foot, "we shoot Jim and Harvey, make it look like they shot one another, and by the time they regain consciousness they'll be the laughingstock of the whole school," he sheds the flannel he's been wearing over his undershirt, folds it up nicely and sets it on top of Oswald's dresser, on top of his coat, "the note's the punchline. And I'm sure it turned out beautifully."

"First," Oswald says, packing away his discontent and producing the suicide note, "tell me the similarity isn't  _incredible_."

Ed bends over to consider the two papers, Jim's handwriting next to Oswald's imitation of it, "It's incredible similarity, Oswald," he comes in and presses a kiss to Oswald's cheek, " _you're_ incredible."

Displeased or not, Oswald brightens beneath the praise. "Okay," he turns the paper to himself and starts to read. "Harvey and I died the day we realized we could never reveal our forbidden love to an uncaring and ununderstanding world," as he paces, Ed coughs, smiling behind the fingernail he's chewing on. "The joy we shared in each others' arms was greater than any touchdown. Yet, we were forced to live the lie of sexist, beer guzzling, jock assholes."

"That's  _perfect_ , doll." Ed's smile is so big that Oswald forgets, for a moment, that he's annoyed with Ed at all. "Now, let's take a look at some of the ' _homosexual artifacts_ ' that I got to set the scene." Interested, Oswald wiggles to the edge of the bed, looking up at Ed from beneath his lashes. "I got an issue of  _Studpuppy_ magazine," Oswald gives Ed a look, "it's a  _current_ issue, no less. A candy dish, and, uh— one for you," he pushes a cookies and cream bar into Oswald's hands, pressing on before anything can be said, "a Joan Crawford postcard, and here's the  _perfecto_ thing I picked up." Ed reaches into his bag and pulls out a large bottle, "Mineral water."

"Aw, come on," Oswald laughs, taking the bottle, "lots of people drink mineral water. It's come a long way!"

"Yeah, but this is Gotham," he takes the bottle back and sets it in the bag again, "if you're a footballer and you don't have a beer in your hand, you might as well be wearing a dress."

"Oh, you're so  _smart_." It takes some effort, but Oswald stands up from the bed to wrap his arms around Ed's shoulders and kiss him. He pushes himself as close as possible, something very easy to do with the limited space they have. 

* * *

Oswald comes back into his apartment after doing chores for his mother, fully expecting to find that Ed has left. He'd only planned on being out of the apartment for an hour, maybe less, but as is usual with his mother, Oswald got stuck. He loves his mother too much to cut her off, considering everything she's done for him, he's happy to indulge her whenever she wants to spend time with him. 

He drops his shirt to the floor as soon as he can, the garment reeking of whatever his mother had been cooking. It isn't until he's trying to remove his pants that Oswald realizes Ed is still in his apartment. In fact, Ed is asleep, curled up around the pillow. Oswald stops short, holding his removed pants in front of himself and considering his options. He sees Ed's jeans, still fastened tightly to his frail waist with a belt. "Eddie," he starts, pulling Ed's flannel over his shoulders, covering his bare chest and the top of his boxers, "hey, wake up, just for a second."

It takes a few tries to get Ed upright, but he seems thankful to see Oswald when he's finally aware enough. Oswald takes his glasses off of his face and pushes a pair of sweatpants into his hands, "Change, you shouldn't sleep in jeans." He disappears into the bathroom and Oswald goes in search of a safe place for the glasses.

"Is that my shirt?" Ed asks upon coming out of the bathroom, significantly more aware than he was previously.

"Yeah," in the background, a radio runs quietly, spouting out traffic updates between choice songs, "sorry for taking so long with my mom. She's— she's clingy."

Ed just waves him off, crawling back into the bed and gesturing for Oswald to join him. It's so easy for Oswald to press himself up against Ed's side, fitting right into the curve of his waist and hips, head tucked against his arm. They settle alongside one another nicely, no harsh edges bumping up against each other, just subtle waves that seem to fall into one another and continue on. "Oswald," his voice is soft, just like everything about him, right down the way his fingers travel over the exposed skin of Oswald's shoulder, "do you think we're doing the right thing?"

"You mean with Jim and Harvey?" Ed nods, looking down at Oswald expectantly. For a moment, Oswald considers the fact that he  _knows_ they're going to kill Jim and Harvey in the morning. He considers that Ed  _doesn't_ know that Oswald knows, and he decides to tell the truth because it's the same, no matter the details. "Yeah, I do. I think we're definitely doing the right thing."

"A good thing?"

"Sometimes, a good thing and a right thing aren't the same." 

"I worship you," it comes out of Ed suddenly, only preceded by a dreamy sigh, "I'd trade my life for yours," shortly after, Ed yawns and his eyes flutter.

"E-Ed, are you—  _Eddie_ ," he whimpers, more than a little overwhelmed, "that's— where did that—" Ed kisses him before Oswald can further make an idiot of himself. 

He pulls Oswald in and runs a hand through the back of his hair, affectionate and a bit forceful. Oswald takes the initiative, lifting himself up onto Ed's hips, giving him the leverage he needs in order to get more kisses from Ed. While Ed's hands travel up over Oswald's thighs, they stall at his hips and hold him there loosely, thumbs moving slowly to graze over the tiny edge of bone he can feel there. 

"Our love is god," Ed says, voice quiet between kisses, quick and almost anxious. His hands feel like they're shaking against Oswald, acting as though he's scared to press down and touch and truly  _feel_. "It is. Our love is god. Our— our love is god."

"What does that mean?"

"It— Oswald," without his glasses, Ed struggles to focus properly on a specific part of Oswald's face, merely staring at him with an expression of empty adoration, "we're the asteroid that's overdue. The dinosaurs died because god said they must— they new world needed room for me and you." It all makes very little sense to Oswald, he can't parse what all of it means but  _god_ does he want to. What he does know is that he likes the sound of it, and he wants to hear Ed talk to him like that forever. "Our love is god," he says with finality, seeming a bit more secure with himself. 

"Our love is god," Oswald says back, blushing so hard that it runs over the back of his neck and around, down the middle of his chest. 

They share silence again, Ed pressing kiss after kiss to every inch of Oswald that he can reach. Beneath it all, Oswald's skin burns and he loves it. He leans further down to press a kiss of his own to Ed's neck, emboldened when he feels Ed shiver beneath him. The desperate romantic in Oswald guides him down Ed's neck to his collarbone, leaving kisses all the way to the curve of his shoulder. Oswald takes Ed's hand off of his hip, unfolding his arm out and kissing all the way up, over the soft pale underside of his upper arm. When he reaches Ed's forearm, he maneuvers over years of scar tissue and rough skin, unyielding until he kisses every single fingertip. Ed wiggles his hand free to place it on Oswald's cheek, running his thumb over the pudgy curve of his jaw.

"You should keep that shirt," he finally says, smiling up at Oswald, "you look nice in it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> i can't believe this thing is already halfway done! wow! wild!
> 
> special thanks to speedybeams for dealing with me being dumb and rewriting this chapter a zillion times and overthinking everything 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	6. shine a light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed and Oswald commit a _real_ murder, and their relationship struggles to stay afloat. Ed is not as put together as he makes himself seem. Jervis Tetch is a terrible, terrible teacher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _but if we show the ugly parts  
>  that we hide away  
> they'll turn out to be beautiful  
> by the light of day _
> 
> content warning for this chapter:  
> vague homophobia (use of the f slur)  
> that's all.

Oswald wears Ed's flannel out to the woods in the morning, wrapped up in cottony safety over last weekend's jeans. They park Oswald's mother's sedan on the road outside of the woods, on the opposite side from the school, their bags pressed tight underneath the seats. Ed hides in a bush behind Oswald as he waits, gun tucked into the back of his jeans, for Jim and Harvey. In the cool morning air, Oswald rubs his arms to generate the warmth his shirt can't provide. He barely hears the footsteps over the sound of his hands moving over fabric.

"Hey, Cobblepot," Jim has it in him to smile, even though he barely looks awake by any means. Harvey says nothing, instead opts to look at the leaves on the ground. 

"Glad you guys could make it," Oswald says, arms folded over his front, "I really appreciate it."

"So, how is this gonna go?" Impatient as ever, Harvey kicks at leaves and continues to keep his eyes trained at the ground. 

"I just—" A breeze passes by and Oswald rearranges himself with a huff, "I feel like you guys wronged me, but— well. Things could have been managed better on my end, too. So maybe just— Together, we all say we're sorry?"

"Then we never talk again, right?"

"Harvey!" Even though he's only eighteen, Jim sounds like an aging father with the tone behind his harsh whisper, "That sounds like a good idea."

"Great," Oswald folds his arms behind his back, fingers wrapping around the grip of the gun and switching the safety, just like Ed had shown him, "count of three?" With hands in their pockets, Harvey and Jim both nod with varying degrees of enthusiasm, "One, two—"

"Three," from behind the buses, Ed emerges and shoots Jim right in the next, panic growing across the boy's features before he drops to the ground. Oswald breaks out in laughter as he aims for Harvey, ultimately missing as the boy runs away at his token football player speed. "You  _missed_ him completely?" Ed sounds genuinely angry, the first flash of anger that Oswald has ever received from him. 

"I'm  _sorry_! You didn't teach me how to shoot!" 

Ed pushes a hand through his hair, frantic. "Look, just— stay there," he lifts his gun and pulls the hammer back, "I'll uh— I'll get him." He runs off, full stride, chasing after Harvey's shadow.

Alone, Oswald bends over to look at Jim's body. As real as he knows it to be, it still feels as unreal as Ed had led him to believe it would be. Oswald has never seen a dead body before, not quite like this. He didn't spend very long looking at Barbara, too caught up in the shock of it all to realize that he didn't see much except the ends of her hair, stained with blood. Jim looks at peace, which is particularly uncharacteristic of him, despite the blood oozing out of his throat and wetting the leaves on the ground. With the mulch and the deterioration, the blood almost fits in with the color scheme of the ground and nature around it. 

Harvey comes running up to the clearing once again, from another side with Ed breathlessly following behind. He might have his gun aimed, he might not, but Oswald hears Ed yell "Now," and he listens. Oswald raises his gun and does exactly what Ed taught him, to make sure it'll fire. He holds the grip so tight that his knuckles go white, stares at the little design on the middle of Harvey's shirt, aims, and shoots. Blood comes seconds later, and Harvey tumbles to the ground. 

In the distance, a police car whirrs to life, two incapable officers chasing after the sound of the gunshots they're certain they've heard. 

"Is he supposed to bleed from his mouth?" Oswald asks, frowning at the gunshot in the middle of Harvey's chest and the blood dripping over his cheek.

"Just remember he's left handed," as Ed speaks and Oswald fits the gun into Harvey's hand, the sound of police radios and footsteps come up behind the staged bodies. Ed is already moving by the time Oswald has gotten to his feet, wrapping a hand around Oswald's wrist and running. 

"Mother of  _shit_ ," one of the officers says, only having missed them.

"Call it in," the other grumbles, putting his gun back into its holster. The sound of Oswald and Ed retreating can be heard in the distance, branches breaking and faint footfalls. 

"I heard something out there," the first officer lifts his gun and poses, buddy cop movie style, "I'm gonna go check it out," and he runs off as his partner radios the incident in. 

Ed can hear the sound of the police officer following them, only a half a minute behind them; just long enough. Despite the struggle that Oswald is having with his leg, he keeps up, still connected to Ed by the boy's vice grip. He's not leaving Oswald behind. He wouldn't. He drags Oswald down an incline and leads him to the car, piling into the front seat beside him, still gasping. 

Before he sits down, Ed has his jacket off and is in the process of shedding his tank top when he shuts the door. "Trust me," he tells Oswald, "follow my lead," he says, wrenching the shoulders of the borrowed shirt off of Oswald. They press in close and Ed puts his hands in Oswald's hair, kisses him hard and climbs into his lap. The officer sees the car and the scene inside. "Don't look at him," Ed says, running his thumb over the shell of Oswald's ear, "just keep looking at me."

"Hey, come in," the officer's radio crackles to life, "what's going on?"

"I must have just heard an animal," he says with a sigh, "all I've got is a couple of kids making out in a station wagon. Should I pry them apart?" 

"No, no," the other says tiredly, "I've got all the answers back here."

As the officers heads back, all of the tension in Ed's body melts and he moves to get off of Oswald's lap. Oswald doesn't let him, instead continues to kiss him and paw desperately at his shoulders. Ultimately, Ed wouldn't even dream of complaining because this is everything he ever could have wanted. 

Back with Jim and Harvey, the first officer reunites with his partner, "Suicide," the second officer says, "double suicide. They shot each other."

"Isn't that, uh, Gordon? Jim Gordon," he says, incredulous. 

"Yeah," his partner shakes his head, "and the linebacker, Harvey Bullock."

"My god, suicide. Why?"

"Does  _this_ ," he pulls the bottle of mineral water out of the bag Ed had left there, planted ever so carefully at Jim's feet, "answer your question?"

"Aw, man," the first officer pales, "they were fags."

"Listen to this," the man reads from the suicide note Oswald wrote, unfolding the wrinkled edges, " _We realized we could never reveal our forbidden love to an uncaring and ununderstanding world._ " 

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"The quarterback fucking the linebacker. What a mess."

* * *

In the school parking lot, Oswald lies asleep in Ed's lap, twisted over in the front seat. He sits up at the sound of car door closing beside them, then reaches into the pocket of Ed's jacket for a cigarette.

"What the  _fuck_ — oh," Ed unlatches his hand from Oswald's arm, having frantically grabbed at it when he felt someone touching him in his sleep, "sorry," he gives up the cigarettes, putting one in his mouth and handing the other to Oswald. 

"So, we really killed them, didn't we?" After pressing the lighter in the car, Oswald sits back and waits for it to heat up. 

"Of course!" Despite only having woken up, Ed sounds just as frantic as always, just as manic and unhinged as he always does. 

Oswald pulls out the lighter and sets it to the end of his cigarette, holding it out for Ed to do the same before putting the hot metal back into its holder. "You  _lied_ to me," he says, breathing smoke out into the closed up cabin. 

"Look," Ed gestures with his cigarette, ash falling on his legs, "you believed it because you wanted to believe it. Your true feelings were too gross and icky for you to face."

"Can you  _stop_ being so fucking philosophical for ten seconds," he hisses, shifting in the seat to stare Ed down. " _Ich lüge_ ," Oswald says, the sounds falling out of his mouth properly, "it's pronounced  _ich lüge_."

"What are you—"

"I'm fucking  _German_ , Ed! For fucks sake!"

"You— No, this—  _this_ isn't right—" the pitch in Ed's voice goes up and he worries on his cigarette, smoke flowing from his nose. 

"Why did you fucking  _lie_ to me?" Oswald's voice has reached a scream, something murderous and violent behind every syllable.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Without any effort, Ed matches his tone and volume. 

"Because—" Despite everything, Oswald doesn't have a very good answer for that. He wanted to see if Ed would actually let him kill someone, thinking that he wouldn't. It seems silly now, with Jim and Harvey cold and dead in the woods. "Because I wanted to see what you were willing to let me do."

"Well, I— It worked out, didn't it?" Ed looks like he might melt into the seats, like he might just up and die, "Face it, I know what you want!"

"You may  _think_ you know what I want," dangerously calm, Oswald takes one last drag off of his cigarette, "but you have  _no_ right to lie to me. I  _trusted_ you." With that, Oswald puts the cigarette out on his own arm in a form of finality, burning a tiny little circle into the untouched skin of his forearm. The tiny spot hisses and Oswald tries not to let it show that it hurts, instead glares at Ed and watches him try not to reach out to the wounded skin. 

In the parking lot, Lee and Valerie stand some distance away from Oswald's car, watching Ed and Oswald fight, "Ah, young love," Valerie says, laughing as Lee looks on with concern. 

"Hey, did you hear?" A girl comes running up, her bangs braided to one side in a hideous tangle of scrunchies and hairpins, "School's cancelled today because Jim and Harvey killed themselves in a repressed homosexual suicide pact."

"No way," Valerie says, more delighted than she is horrified, but the girl is already gone, off to tell others. 

The cabin of the car is quiet, a suffocating and terrifying silence that Oswald can't stand, too concerned of what it means when Ed isn't letting his racing thoughts come out. "Listen," he says, reaching out for Ed slowly, "don't lie to me. I won't lie to you. Can we make an ice run before going to the funeral?" The joke comes out stilted, but Ed lets out a small laugh and takes Oswald's offered hand. 

* * *

Just like at Barbara's, Ed and Oswald sit side by side in the pews at Jim and Harvey's funeral. The families decided to do a join service, considering the  _circumstances_. The boys are dressed in their finest black suits, ties red to match the ribbons on their caskets and the football helmets on their heads; one of the school's colors. 

"If there's any way you can hear me, James, buddy, I don't care that you really were some pansy. You're my own flesh and blood and you made me proud," Jim's father stands at the side of his son's casket, looking proper in his suit that matches the one his son is being buried in. "My son's a homosexual, and I love him! I love my dead gay son!"

"How do you think he'd react to a son that had a limp wrist with a pulse?" Ed whispers into Oswald's ear, draping his arm over his shoulders. Oswald can't help but giggle, a small enough sound that most anyone could pass it off for a half finished sob, but a child in the front row turns around and looks Oswald in the eyes as his smile fades. The little boy's eyes are wet, tears streaming down his face and onto his suit. In the face of it all, Oswald can't find it in himself to care. He turns back to Ed and takes his hand with a smile. 

* * *

Mister Jervis Tetch stands at the head of the table in the teacher's lounge, surrounded by cigarette smoke. "We were in a similar position on Monday," he says, rocking on his heels, "but none of you listened to what I had to say."

"Jervis—" the gym coach starts, toying with a pencil. 

"Shut up, Paul," the principal points with his cigarette. "Now, I've seen a lot of bullshit. Angel dust, switchblades, sexually perverse photography exhibits involving tennis rackets. But this suicide thing," he looks down at the table, then up to the head, "I guess that's more on Jervis' wavelength." Just a few feet away, Jervis is smiling so wide it's practically audible. "We're just going to write off today. And on Friday, he can hold his little love-in or whatever."

"Whatever," the gym coach echoes, dropping his pencil for the single remaining donut. Jervis takes the breakfast treat before the man can get it. 

On Friday, Jervis wears his finest suit and stands up at a podium in the middle of the lunchroom. "Attention, attention," he says, speaking up when the room quiets down around him. "This school has been torn apart by loss," at the other end of the lunchroom, Oswald walks through the doors and stops short, observing the scene, "I'm here to help build a bride across." Jervis gestures grandly to the students around him, "I want everyone to join hands," the two students on either side of him give up their hands, "we need to connect, so that everyone understands."

"Excuse me, please," a television crew pushes past Oswald and into the cafeteria, quickly setting themselves up.

Jervis trots between students, getting them to stand and link hands, moving from a table of nervous freshmen to the constantly stoned seniors, forcing all of their hands together. Eventually, students give in to his desperate attempts, humoring the man for the time being. 

"What's going on?" Valeria asks, coming to stand alongside Oswald in the doorway.

"Looks like Mister Tetch is on one of his crusades. With the usual success, of course." With horror, Oswald looks at the line of linked up students that's forming in front of him. When he looks back to speak to Valerie, she's wedged herself into the line, speaking directly to the camera. Ed slides up behind Oswald, seemingly emerging from the shadows themselves. 

"Is this as good for you as it is for me?" he asks, laughing as he wraps his arms around Oswald's waist. Oswald ignores him; angry, overwhelmed, and even a little bit dizzy. Just as easily as he'd arrived, Ed slinks away. 

He slides to the back of the cafeteria, sitting at a table where it seems nobody is seated. From beneath the table, though, a head of red hair pops out. Ivy Pepper, the long forgotten and often mistreated. "Greetings and salutations," Ed says, giving her a terse wave. 

"Those fish sticks can wait, we mustn't hesitate!" Jervis has managed to connect the whole of the cafeteria, creating some kind of bastardized pep rally in the face of student suicide. The entire display is sickening, outright foolishness and martyrizing of a few of the school's worst students. Oswald turns around and limps out of the cafeteria, more tired than when he'd come in. 

* * *

"God," Oswald says, folded up on Ed's couch as the other searches through radio stations for something to listen to, "that _thing_ this afternoon? I'm so angry! It was fucking chaos!"

"What are you talking about?" The volume goes up when the station Ed has chosen finally comes through clearly, "Today was great.  _Chaos_ is great. Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, darling." Oswald simply rolls his eyes, conceding the point. It sounds better when Ed says it. "Face it, our way  _is_ the way. We scare people into not being assholes. It works!" 

"Yeah, except our way isn't  _our_ way," he says grumpily, tossing a VHS case at Ed in desperate anger, "I still can't believe you'd lie to me!" 

"Jesus," Ed catches the empty plastic easily, "you're still mad about that? I apologized!"

"No," there's an eerie calm to Oswald when he gets especially angry, a quiet that comes before his trademark screeching yelling, "you didn't. You didn't, not even once."

Before anything else can be said, Ed's father strides into the room, a VHS of his own in hand. "Woah," Ed laughs, stiff, "what are you doing?"

"We beat the bitches," his father says, loading the tape into the player on top of the television set, "the judge told them to slurp shit and die," the television flickers to life and the motel he'd mentioned not too many days ago comes up on the screen. In seconds, the entire building gives out from the ground, collapsing in on itself. "I put a Norwegian in the boiler room," the grown man giggles, staring down at the screen with rapt attention, "masterful. And then, when that blew— it set off a pack of thermals I put upstairs." Grating his teeth, Oswald watches, anger boiling in his body with no outlet. "You know," Ed's father says, giddy as he takes the tape out of the player, "some days it's great to be alive." And just like that, he's gone again, disappearing deeper into the house. 

"Do you  _like_ your father?"

"I've never given the matter much thought," he says, watching as his father's door at the end of the hallway shuts, "I liked my mother." The picture that sits on the coffee table looks at Oswald, smiles at him with Ed's perfect teeth, "They said her death was an accident but she knew what she was doing. She walked into the building two minutes before my dad blew the place up. I remember she waved at me, and then—" Ed gestures with his hands; a gigantic, cartoonish mushroom cloud, "boom."

"Dudes," the radio speaks, louder in the building silence, "if I get one more request for that Big Fun song,  _I'm_ going to commit suicide! Here it is, 'Teenage Suicide, Don't Do It.'" 

"Hey," Ed looks away from the picture and stands from the couch, spinning on his heel, "they're playing our song!" He goes and turns the radio put, pushes the volume knob until the thing is blaring, almost painful. As he comes back to Oswald on the couch, he snaps his fingers in time, making a playful attempt at an air guitar. His expression changes as soon as he sees his attempt at a change of subject is going unaccepted. Then, he pulls a revolver out of his coat and shoots the radio, silencing it. Oswald nearly jumps out of his skin, staring aghast. 

"That's it!" He stands up, pulling his jacket onto his shoulders as he moves, "We're done."

"What?" In a gesture that's far easier than it should be, Ed pulls Oswald back to the couch by the crook of his elbow, "That's not going to bring any of them back. It's not going to change what we've done— what you've done."

"I'm not trying to bring anybody back, except  _maybe_ myself."

"Oswald, no," Ed's hands are moving faster than his head can follow, panic settling into his limbs, "wait— I  _love_ you!" At first, Ed thinks that Oswald's silence is positive, thinks that it's him considering how to say it back. He follows Oswald's eye, though, to the gun that's in his hand. It's pointing at Oswald, still cocked from earlier. He hadn't intended to hurt Oswald, had barely even realized he was still holding it while he was gesturing. 

"If you can't deal with me now, like an adult," Oswald says, standing firm in the doorway and doing his best not to let on how much the fall onto the couch hurt his hip, "then stay here and blow up your television, maybe shoot a few toasters. Just don't come to school, and don't fuck with me."

"You'll be back," as Oswald stalks out of his house, Ed calls after him, his voice breaking on the end. He doesn't believe it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> yes this is posted a day late  
> no i don't have an excuse  
> a p o l o g i e s 
> 
> this chapter's really short, i can definitely tell it is. dividing up a story is like cutting a cake; it all seems even when you plan it, but when you really look at it, it's all sorts of off. 
> 
> this chapter really marks where the story begins to shift from the canon, no longer following the outline of incidents that the movie/musical follow. just so y'all are aware. 
> 
> special thanks to user speedybeams for helping me figure out literally Everything that went with jim and harvey; those two gave me a whole lot of trouble and you saved me from them. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	7. lifeboat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed blackmails Valerie to get a plan in motion, Oswald struggles with being alone, and Lee has no one to turn to in a time of crisis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _everyone's pushing,  
>  everyone's fighting,  
> storms are approaching  
> there's nowhere to hide _

Ed walks into an empty chemistry lab, folder in hand as he sits across from Valerie Vale. He pushes a picture of her and Ivy Pepper, hands clasped and heads pressed close, as children at summer camp, across the table to her. 

"Me and Poison Ivy?" Valerie asks, pushing the picture back with disgust, "Where did you get this?"

"Well, I just had the nicest chat with Miss Ivy," he says, smiling, "we got along famously. It's kind of scary that everybody's got a little story to tell. You wanna see the canoeing shots? Those are my personal favorites."

"What is this? Blackmail?" When Ed can't find a better way to respond, he simply nods. "I'll— I'll give you a week's lunch money."

"Um," Ed laughs, shaking his head, "I don't want your money. I want your strength. Gotham High does not need mushy togetherness, it needs a strong leader." As he speaks, Ed taps his hands together, tiny little claps to accentuate his point. "Barbara Kean  _was_ that leader, but—"

"But she couldn't handle it," Valerie says, suddenly very cocky in her mint two piece suit. 

"I think you can," he counters, "Moby Dick is dunked. The white whale drank some bad plankton and splashed through a coffee table. Now it's  _your_ turn to take the helm."

"What about the photographs?"

"Oh, don't worry," suddenly, Ed his chipper and full of smiles again, all a little forced, "I'll ask you to do me a favor, and it'll be one you enjoy. You'll get the negatives and everything back then. In the meantime; strength." He reaches into his coat, producing the red scrunchie Barbara would always wear in her hair. How he procured it is unclear, but he pushes it into Valerie's hand. "Here's a little gift. To show my sincerity."

* * *

Even though it was his idea to break things off with Ed, Oswald still feels entirely empty about the whole thing. He walks through school without his bag, feeling practically naked without Ed's borrowed shirt over his shoulders. As he walks, he comes across Barbara's locker and impulsively pulls the police sticker seal off of it, opening it up with ease. He looks across the photographs and fashion magazines, the various keychains and buttons strewn throughout. There's a picture in the door, Oswald and Barbara in a carnival photo booth, all smiles and cutesy poses. Oswald stares at their eyes, tries so desperately to find something that makes him feel guilty for taking Barbara's life. 

He wants his body to feel something other than satisfaction. Oswald knows, deep down, that he should feel bad for everything that he's done, what he's struggling with is the fact that he can't bring himself to. Ultimately, he wants to pretend they didn't deserve it, he wants to believe that he can be pulled back from what he's done. He realizes, as hands cover his eyes, that he's always been on the cusp of violence, always considering it, always acting out— he's just never had someone to help him. 

"Guess who?"

"Valerie?" Oswald turns around, confused as he takes in the sight of Valerie wearing Barbara's scrunchie. He reaches out to touch it, visibly disgusted, and walks away in a huff.

When nobody is looking, Valerie takes Barbara's earrings from where they hang in her locker. 

* * *

In his mother's apartment, Oswald washes dishes as she watches television. Jervis Tetch's voice is superimposed over the video of the incident he'd pulled in the cafeteria, showing students holding hands and cheering together. It's turned down low enough that Oswald can't hear Tetch over the sound of the faucet. 

"Isn't that the freak I met at the open house?"

"Yes,  _meine süße Mutter,"_ Oswald sets another plate down on the drying rack.

"Oh," his mother exclaims, laughing, "look! There's your friend Valerie. Where are you, Oswald?"

"Before a student decides to kill himself, there's some facts that he should know," the principal reads prepared words, but delivers them with conviction, his voice carrying into the kitchen. "After all, this is a decision that affects all of us, and there's only once change to get it right."

Angrily, Oswald walks into the room with his mother and shuts the television off with the remote she's left on the arm of the couch, "Can't you tell these programs are just eating suicide up with a spoon! They're making it sound like it's a cool thing to do."

"It's just television,  _liebling_ , don't you worry," she reaches out for his hand and pats it gently, taking the remote from him.

"Fine," he says, holding her hand for a moment, "at least watch one of your game shows instead, please? I see enough of those people at school."

"Of course," the smile his mother gives him is so genuine, so absolute and wholesome, any anger in his heart melts away. 

" _Cobblepot!_ " In through the door, Valerie brings the smell of the outdoors and perfume with her, "And Mother Kapelput," she butchers the name, but she remembers to use it at all, which makes Oswald's mother smile. 

"We just saw  _you_ on the news, young lady," she says, not looking away from the Wheel of Fortune puzzle on the screen.

"Can I borrow Ozzie for a little bit?"

"Let me finish the dishes—" Oswald starts, surprisingly cut off by his own mother. 

"It's important to make time for your friends, Oswald. The dishes will be here later, you go." There are times when Oswald loves his mother, practically all the time without question, and then there are times when Oswald questions how deserving he is to have a mother as good as his. 

"Thanks, ma," he says, stepping into his house shoes and walking over to kiss his mother's forehead, "I lo—"

"Just because your friend is here doesn't mean you don't get to speak to me properly," she chastises, though entirely devoid of any venom. "I'm sure her parents make her do the same."

Oswald sighs, giving her a smile, " _Ich liebe dich sehr, meine liebe Mutter._ "

"Your mom always make you speak German to her?" Valerie asks, once they're out in the courtyard.

"Only sometimes, when she gets in a mood," he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a deep breath of fresh air. "What's up?"

"Oh, my god,  _right_ ," she grins, overjoyed, "I can't believe I almost forgot. You can't have heard. We were doing Chinese at the food fair when it comes over the radio that Poison Ivy tried to buy the farm," Oswald's whole expression spreads with terror, unadulterated and raw. "She belly-flopped in front of a car wearing a suicide note."

"I— Oh, _fuck_. Is she dead?"

"No, that's the punchline. She's alive, and she'll continue to be. Just another case of a nobody trying to imitate the popular people of the school and, of course," Valerie breaks her speech to laugh, a perfect smile on her face, "failing miserably."

Oswald can't think of what else to do, so he reaches out and slaps Valerie across the face. Not very hard, but hard enough that her cheek tints pink and she's as horrified as she could be about Ivy jumping in front of traffic. 

Twenty minutes later, they sit on Oswald's bed together, Valerie holding an ice pack to her cheek.

"I said I was sorry," Oswald manages, not putting much effort into anything he's saying. 

"That was so totally uncalled for," she whines, finally dropping the ice pack. "I mean, get crucial, it's Poison Ivy we're talking about. She dialed suicide hotlines in her diapers."

"You're not funny."

"Look, she couldn't take the heat, so she got out of the kitchen. The world would be a better place if ever nimrod followed her example."

"Just shut up," Oswald says, fussing with his radio, "Hot Probs is on."

When the machine blares to life, finally deciding to work after Oswald has slammed the heel of his hand into it a few times, a man is on one of the lines, chattering on. "—I mean, like, Skipper's okay, but still, sometimes I feel like  _I'm_ on that island. And Gilligan can just be so stupid sometimes, and—"

"Yeah, well, dude," the show host cuts the man off, irritation present in his voice, "just remember. If it wasn't for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minnow would be lost, and you would be, too. Next caller."

"Damn," Valerie says, rearranging herself on Oswald's bed, "that sounded like a good one, too."

"Hey, you've got the Dog Catcher," the host says, a sound byte of dogs barking playing in the background.

"Hi," the caller's voice is soft, hesitant, "my name is Leslie— No, it's— it's not Leslie."

Oswald and Valerie share a horrified look, leaning closer to the radio instinctually. 

"Babe," the host's voice is imposing, breaking the magic of the terrifying moment, "I need a name."

"Tweety," Not-Lee decides, sighing, "call me Tweety."

"Ooh, sweet," the radio station plays some bird songs, then the man's voice returns, "what's eating you?"

"God has cursed me, I think. The last guy I had sex with killed himself the next day. I'm failing math, my whole life is a mess. I was supposed to be captain of the cheerleading team—"

"She  _knows_ we listen to this show," Oswald stares down at the speaker, petrified at the thought that the nicest person he's ever known is going through such turmoil.

"Holy shit, we'll crucify her," Valerie says, laughing.

"My parents are divorced and stuff," Not-Lee-But-Definitely-Lee continues, "and my life is falling apart. It feels like I'm in this tiny lifeboat with everyone I've ever known, and— and were sinking. Someone has to get off the lifeboat, you know? And if I do something wrong, if I dress wrong, I'll get thrown overboard. I'm trying my best," she sounds like she's crying, still elegant and clear, "but the captain is pointing, and you know what? Who made  _her_ captain? But— still. The weakest must go."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> special thanks to user speedybeams for keeping me on my schedule and for ensuring me that my work is worth posting.
> 
> the next chapter is a big shift from the Heathers story. lots of things change for oswald, specifically, and he makes a big decision. oh, boy. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	8. shine a light (reprise) / meant to be yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lee finds out who is and isn't her friend, Ed gives Valerie a simple task, and Oswald reaches his breaking point in the face of fire and his lacking guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _i was meant to be yours_  
>  we were meant to be one  
> i can't make it alone  
> finish what we've begun.  
> you were meant to be mine  
> i am all that you need  
> you carved open my heart  
> can't just leave me to bleed! 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> content warnings:  
> attempted suicide by pills  
> mass death by fire  
> ed having genuine human emotions

When they get to math class, the single class Valerie, Oswald, and Lee all have together, someone has scrawled "Poor Little Leslie" on the chalkboard in flawless cursive. Lee sits in her seat, as though it doesn't bother her, looking pretty in her perfect little cheerleading uniform. Still, she's picking the polish off of her nails. Time passes, the chatter in the room swells, and Lee takes her purse and runs out of the classroom, right past the teacher. 

"Where's Leslie going?" he asks, expressing more concern than he likely genuinely has. 

"She's going to  _cry_ ," Valerie responds, getting a rousing laughter from everyone in the class. Except for Oswald, who can't hide his disgust, no matter how hard he tries. Oswald follows after Lee as soon as he realizes how terrifying the thought of her being alone truly is. 

He limps up the stairs to the smallest girls restroom, the one he knows Lee likes to do her makeup in because the least people come through. Oswald pushes through the door as Lee is filling a cup of water, made to wash down the handful of pills she's shoved into her mouth. Gracelessly, Oswald grabs her by the cheeks pushes them together until she spits most of the pills out, the last few falling from her lips as he pushes her up against the wall. 

"What are you trying to do, kill me?" she asks, angrily tossing her water cup to the ground. 

"What are  _you_ trying to do, sleep?" Oswald grinds one of the pills into the floor as Lee drops to her knees, leaning her head against the wall. 

"Suicide is a private thing, Ozzie."

"Lee, you're throwing your life away to become a statistic in the next USA Today. That is about the  _least_ private thing I can think of."

"What about Barbara, and Jim, and Harvey?" Absently, Lee flicks pills across the bathroom floor. 

It takes some effort, but Oswald sits himself down on the slick tile next to Lee, putting his hand on her arm, "If everyone jumped off of a bridge, young lady, would you?"

"Probably," Lee admits sheepishly, once again working away the polish on her nails.

"If you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be a human being, you'd be a game show host."

"Valerie kicked me off the team," she says, a desperate regurgitation of information, "she told me this morning."

"I'm sorry, Lee," it's the most sincere Oswald has heard himself sound in weeks, and he's glad it's with Lee.

"What do you say we leave early, go buy some shoes or get a pizza— something lame like that?"

"I'd like that a lot," he smiles at her, moving to hold her hand. Lee puts her head on his shoulder and Oswald drops his head on top of hers, kicking pills away. "Could we do it sooner, rather than later, though? This floor isn't very comfortable."

Lee lets out the most wholesome, full body laugh. He didn't expect it to be that funny to her, but Oswald is just happy to know he's been able to help one  _good_ person, instead of just removing bad ones. Still, he can't help but wonder how much it would benefit Lee to have every person who hurt her taken out of the equation. 

* * *

Ed sits across from Valerie again, in the same empty chemistry lab. She drops a burning envelope into one of the sinks, disposing of the pictures of her and Ivy Pepper once and for all.

"It's come to this," he says, holding a stack of papers in his hand, "Barbara did polls, and I want you to do a petition as a favor. As  _the_ favor." Ed watches the flames lick up the sides of the sink, keeping his jacket and papers away from the clawing edges. "You've heard of the group Big Fun, right?"

"Of  _course_."

"Some teeny-bopper rag says that they want to play a prom. It could be Gotham Senior High's if we got everybody's signature."

"Right on it, coach," Valerie says, giving Ed a salute as she walks out, petition papers in hand. 

She makes her rounds, getting every signature she can. It works out well, she gets the entire student body, excluding those who can't be accounted for; Ivy Pepper, prone in a hospital bed, Lee Thompkins, staying home for the rest of the week, and Oswald himself. 

Oswald finds her sitting in a windowsill in the hallway, right before the final bell, "Val?"

"Oswald," she sits up to greet him, "color me stoked. I've gotten everyone to sign this petition, even the ones who think Big Fun are tuneless Euro-Trash. People love me!"

" _People_ love you, but I  _know_ you," he says, frowning at Valerie, "Jennifer Forbes told me the petition she signed was to put a hot tub in the cafeteria, and Solomon Grundy told me—"

"Some people need different kinds of convincing than others. Are you going to sing the petition or not?"

"What does it matter?"

"Look, it was Ed's idea!" Valerie turns vicious on the drop of a pin, baring her teeth, "He made out the signature sheet and everything so why don't you just sign it?"

"No."

"Wow, jealous much?"

Oswald wants to slap her again, but he  _knows_ she'll be prepared for that. Instead, he pulls at his hair until his eyes water, "Dammit, Valerie, why can't you just be a friend? Why are you such a megabitch?"

"Because I can be." The statement comes out of Valerie far too easily for it to be a new revelation, and Oswald  _hates_ that. He hates it because it makes Ed right, it means he was right all along. "Do you really think, I mean do you  _really_ think if Isabella Flynn's fairy godmother made her cool, she would still hang out with her dweebette friends? No way, Ozzie." Valerie takes her bag and walks away, shoulder checking Oswald on the way out. 

* * *

"I'm sorry," Ed stands in front of his mirror, head held high. His jacket sits on his bed, splayed out where he'd thrown it the minute he'd gotten home. The petition, fully signed and organized, sits next to dynamite on his desk, a makeshift bomb only half assembled. He has plans. "It was never my intention to—" he throws his hands into his hair, clawing at his scalp. It doesn't sound  _genuine_ , and that's exactly what Oswald deserves; something genuine, and honest, and heartfelt, and everything more. 

All Ed wants is to apologize and have Oswald back. He doesn't care if it means he never touches another gun in his life, he doesn't care if it means he dies a week from today; spending the rest of his time with Oswald is all Ed wants. 

Oswald understands him, sees his nuances and considers them positive quirks, he accepts everything that Ed is insecure about, he treats Ed with respect. Not only that, but Oswald is the first person to ever stand up to him. Ed absolutely loves that about him. He loves that Oswald has never been afraid of him, never frightened by the messiness of his words or the fog inside of his head— Oswald seems to love him, and that means a lot to Ed. 

He can't keep living without it. 

"I didn't mean to make you feel as though—" No matter how many times he rehearses it, nothing sounds the way he thinks it should. His father has always told him that the most important things he'll ever say will come to him in the moment— business dealings, proposals, courtships, it's all supposed to come out of thin air. the idea of something going unrehearsed makes Ed so nervous that he feels like he might vomit. 

Ed opens his window in an attempt to get some fresh air, only to be met with the smell of smoke and the sound of sirens. He looks to his right and sees giant plumes of dark gray smoke over the sunset, making the sky prematurely dark. It looks like the fire is just outside of the neighborhood, on the other side of the busy street that marks the edge of the subdivision— it's right where Oswald's apartment complex is. 

It would probably make more sense for Ed to just run the distance, but he's on his motorcycle before he can run through all possible scenarios. The evening air makes his bare arms sting, and they feel almost numb by the time he drops his motorcycle in the yard across the street from Oswald's complex. Every apartment on the left side of the courtyard is engulfed in flames, giving off black smoke at one end and gray smoke at the other end where the firemen have started to put it out. From where he's standing, he can't see the tiny little building that Oswald has made his own, hiding in the middle of the courtyard behind the slowly growing foliage— there's too much smoke, too much fire, and Ed runs across the busy street with little regard for the cars coming his way. 

Like any other public scene, there's a crowd. Various tenants from the other side of the complex are standing outside in their pajamas, all standing a good distance back with their arms crossed over their chests. Some people seem to have simply stopped on their evening walk, holding their dogs on short leashes as they look on, following the firemen with their eyes. Ed looks over the entirety of the crowd for Oswald, looks for the mess of black hair and tilted stance, tries to will him into existence because the alternative is something Ed can't particularly cope with. 

"Lee— Lee, I'm fine," Ed can hear him, somewhere behind a fire engine, "you don't need to come, I just— I didn't— I didn't know wh-who else to call," no matter how hard Ed tries to force his way through the people, there just seems to be more and more of them in his way, "they— they haven't found my mo—" rounding the end of the vehicle, he can hear Oswald's voice crack as he doubles over the gigantic phone in his hand, limited by the length of the cord. The paramedic standing at his side puts a hand on Oswald's shoulder, steadying him, "I don't know if she— Lee, what if— f-fuck, what if she's dead?" The little shock blanket they've put over Oswald's shoulders shakes as he cries, his skin smudged black where it peeks out. 

Just seeing Oswald alive is enough to make Ed's eyes sting, something he immediately tells himself is caused by the smoke. The paramedic sees him before he can approach, leaving Ed frozen in place, holding onto the warm chrome of the fire engine. "Friend of yours?" the woman asks, turning Oswald toward Ed.

Despite being almost exclusively driven by his emotions, Oswald is usually very good at keeping his face particularly unreadable. Even when he does go so far as to make his emotions visible, he keeps his expression restrained. Now, as he sees Ed, there's no way for him to reign in the sorrow that has burned itself into his features. The ash on his face makes the darkness under his eyes worse, makes his cheeks look more swallow. Beneath the shock blanket, Ed sees what Oswald is wearing; the sweatpants Ed had borrowed and his flannel. 

"Uh— Lee, um, I— I'll call you back later, o-okay?" he pushes the phone toward the paramedic without looking at her. 

"You, um—" Ed takes a stab at humor, nervous now that he's under Oswald's gaze, "you look like hell."

"Yeah, well, I just got back," Oswald gestures to the burning apartment complex, tears apparent in his eyes. 

Something inside of Ed hitches into motion, guides him over to Oswald and holds him. He tucks Oswald's head under his chin and pretends that he doesn't feel every part of Oswald's body shaking, pretends that he doesn't feel just how heavily Oswald is leaning on him. "I'm sorry," he says, words falling out of his mouth before he can stop them, "I— When I said I worshipped you, I meant it. Never, n-never in my life would I ever hurt you, I— I wouldn't. I promise. You, Oswald, I  _told_ you, you're the only thing that's right in this broken world, and I— I need you," the longer he talks, Ed's voice climbs up until it goes flat, falling back down inside of a sob. "I can't make it alone,  _please_. You're all I can trust— I'm so sorry I lied to you, I was scared that you might not stay and— and I didn't think—  _Please_." Against his chest, Oswald starts shaking harder, his hands clenching so tightly into Ed's shirt that he can feel the nails against his skin. "Oh,  _dear_ ," Ed sniffles, trying to compose himself, "I said— I said something wrong, I'm sorry. I didn't get to rehearse enough and I didn't mean to make you more upset, I—"

Oswald disengages and kisses Ed as well as he can, pulling him down to be on level. It's difficult with the burning pain in his hip and the tears on his face, but Oswald commits to it, fingers in Ed's hair. "You didn't say anything wrong," his voice cracks embarrassingly in the middle, another sob breaking out of him, "thank you. I— It's so fucking  _hard_ to be mad at you," he admits, kissing Ed again. When he's with Ed, everything awful around him fades into static and he can feel safe, even if it's just for a few seconds at a time. 

With someone to look after him, Oswald is surrendered to Ed's watchful eye, still wrapped up in his shock blanket. They sit on the curb, watching firefighters put out the flames, watching them pull tenants out, most dead. Oswald's crying comes and goes, waves seeming to hit him as he sees hotspots flare up, as he sees charred families pulled out of the rubble. 

An officer comes by the explain to Oswald what they've found out— the story is very cut and dry, very simple and disappointing. Some high schoolers had started a fire in an oil drum outside of the building, leaving it too close and unattended. With the wind, the fire had grown out of the drum and up the far wall, catching and spreading quickly along the building, dry from the lack of rain. Instead of seeking help, the teenagers bolted, left the fire to rage until it was too late to save most of the people inside. 

Oswald is clawing into his own arm in anger as the policeman walks away, going to talk to more of the nervous tenants. 

"You were right," Oswald says, dangerously quiet, "nothing is different, no matter where you go."

Ed looks away from the cigarette in his hand, frowning at Oswald, "What?"

"They're all as bad as you said they were. You cut off one of their heads and two come up from the bleeding neck," there's so much hatred, so much violence and danger in Oswald's voice. "They— they killed my mother, Eddie," the tears come back, fracturing the anger for a moment.

"We'll talk about this when I take you home," Ed kisses Oswald's head, holding him close, "I have an idea."

Until they pull his mother out of the remains of her apartment, Oswald is quiet. His mother's body is barely her own anymore, the colors all wrong and her soft edges turned harsh, charred points. The ash that covers her is of everything they owned, everything she managed to bring with her when she moved to America. Every single one of Oswald's baby pictures, every single childhood art project he made her, every report card, every birthday letter, every mother's day card— It's all gone, all dissolved into pieces that have settled in the dents of Oswald's mother's corpse. 

The medical examiner takes her away in a van with several other people, gives Oswald his card so that he can keep in touch. 

"At least your little apartment didn't get any damage," one of the arson detective says as they're packing up, slapping a hand on Oswald's shoulder, "you're a lucky little guy."

"My mother is dead."

* * *

Oswald walks alongside Ed as he walks the motorcycle home, finally coming to the front door in the middle of the night. He guides Oswald inside and takes him right up to his room, bypassing his father along the way. "I'll talk to him later," Ed says, closing his door behind them and immediately finding clothes for Oswald to change into, "here. You smell like smoke." 

Almost entirely devoid of emotion, Oswald changes right there on Ed's bed, wiggling into clothes that swallow him whole. He reaches for the petition, flipping through the pages, "Eddie," he starts, picking at a sticker on the front page, "what's this petition really about?"

"Tomorrow," as he pulls his head through his own new shirt, Ed turns around to look Oswald in the eye, "I'll explain everything. Right now, I think you should sleep."

With little fight, Oswald concedes and lets Ed crawl into bed next to him, his hair tickling Ed's nose. Quietly, from beneath the nest of blankets he's brought to the bed, Ed hears Oswald's voice. "Our love is god," he says, barely above a whisper. 

"Our love is god." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading 
> 
> mega extra special thanks to speedybeams for helping me figure out just _what_ i wanted to have happen to oswald's mother, and _how_ i wanted ed to apologize. you're my ride or die.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)
> 
> i also have a lot of things to say about oswald's arc and why i've chosen to change the story the way i have, but i'm leaving it _after_ my tumblr link, so people know they don't have to read it if they don't want to lmao 
> 
> anyway
> 
> as much as i would love to write a to-the-death battle with ed and oswald in a boiler room, i don't think ed would be able to detach himself from oswald in the way that jd did himself from veronica. imo, ed is obsessive as fuck, and one of the key lines of jd dialogue for me is "finish what we've begun," i don't think ed would be able to finish what they started without oswald at his side, not at this stage in his life. 
> 
> so, in order to make that work, i had to break oswald. 
> 
> the distinct thing about veronica that drives the heathers story is her humane guilt— something i personally don't think oswald has enough of, and something i've written him to have struggled with in the past few chapters. all he needed was a reason to become ruthless like ed wants to be— losing his mother felt like the perfect stressor. 
> 
> just a little clarification, so it's clear why i've decided to take the heathers story and tear it in half like someone who forgot parts of a recipe but _really_ needs something to take to a dinner. 
> 
> don't worry, things can only get better for oswald now that he and ed are on the same page. 
> 
> this work is almost finished, i'm so excited to share the rest with y'all. thanks so much for sticking around.


	9. i am damaged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed tells Oswald about his plan for the school and the two of them start putting the pieces into action. Ed helps Oswald lay his mother to rest, and then they put a few more people out of their misery, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i'll trade my life for yours_   
>  _and once i disappear_   
>  _clean up the mess down here—_   
>  _our love is god_   
>     
> content warnings for this chapter:  
> bombs, lots of bombs  
> death by gun  
> misguided concepts of romance

Standing in Ed's kitchen, Oswald feels  _very_ out of place. Everything around him feels so very  _different_ from what his mother had; Ed's house is made up of clean lines and modernist design, which is so very contrary to the classic warmth Oswald has become comfortable with. There are no knick knacks, there are no mismatched mugs or tupperwares of leftovers in the fridge. It's not a home. 

Until he finishes his phone call with Lee, though, Oswald is trapped in the kitchen. She worries over him, rightfully so, trying to convince him to come stay with her. "We have a spare bedroom," she offers, voice so painfully sympathetic, "you  _know_ my parents love you. You will always have a place here."

"My apartment didn't get ruined," he argues weakly, wishing that Ed were next to him, because he suddenly feels very heavy. 

"Oswald," Lee manages to put so much love into everything she says, "you do whatever makes you feel comfortable. Just know you have options with us, okay?"

"Thank you," and it doesn't sound like enough, doesn't sound like he's saying everything she deserves to hear, "really. Thank you, so much."

Oswald hangs up and walks back to Ed's bedroom, walking right up to him and pressing himself against his chest. Doing this with Ed feels so easy, it feels right to simply walk up to him in an empty home and be held; it feels like they're the only people in the world, and that's exactly how Oswald wants it to be. He doesn't want to go back to school, he doesn't want to have to grow up at all— he wants to stay young, impulsive, and powerful with Ed at his side. 

"The petition is a suicide note," Ed says, speaking over the top of Oswald's head, staring at the wall, "for the whole school."

"What?"

The petition sits on Ed's bed, sat next to his gun, unloaded with the bullets beside it. Ed pulls back and picks up the petition, tearing away the sticker he'd put at the top of the front page. Words about Big Fun are torn away, and Ed dictates from the newly exposed paper, " _We, the students of Gotham Senior High, will die. Today, our burning bodies will be the ultimate protest to a society that degrades us. Signed, the students of Gotham Senior High— Goodbye._ It's not very subtle, but neither is blowing up a whole school, now is it?"

It takes Oswald a long time to consider what Ed is saying, looking at the papers in his hands, even as Ed's expression slowly evolves from confident to paranoid. "You were planning this before— before the fire," he sounds accusatory, "what was the idea, then?"

"I— I thought maybe, if— You were upset about the gun when we argued and I  _understand_ so I thought you'd— you'd see the plan as an attempt to— I—" words die in Ed's mouth as his brain works faster than his lips, "I wanted you to see that I would change things, just to make you comfortable."

It's not surprise to Oswald that Ed hasn't always had the  _best_ grasp on normal social gestures, but it makes his heart swell nonetheless, no matter how twisted it is. "That's—"

"It's fucked," he sounds defeated, drawing a hand through his hair and driving the heel into his eye. 

"Yeah, but I appreciate it," Oswald tells him, trying for a smile.

"Does that mean—"

"Yeah," all of the energy left in Oswald goes into the vicious smile on his face, goes into the hands he has on Ed's chest, "they're all the same, and what they took from me—" he forces the tears back down, forces the images of his mother to the back of his mind. "The world would be better off without them. We can make that happen."

" _We_ ," Ed echoes, committing Oswald's expression to memory. The fire in his eyes is one of the most beautiful things Ed has seen, and he's willing to do just about anything to see more of it. 

* * *

A pep rally is planned at the school for Friday and it just seems like the perfect opportunity. The football and cheerleading teams are required to attend, the entire school is expected to attend— nothing is bigger at Gotham Senior High than football.

Oswald buries his mother on a Wednesday, because it's the least expensive day to get time at the funeral home. It's only him, Ed, a few women his mother worked with, and some long-time tenants, without any pastor or sermon to be heard. His mother's life insurance money barely covers the cost of a place for her ashes, and Oswald uses what little remains of a bouquet of lilies. 

When it comes time to seal her ashes in the columbarium, Oswald can barely find the words to say to her. 

In the polished marble walls, Oswald can see their reflections; he sees Ed next to him, one arm wrapped around his middle to keep Oswald upright, the other holding the expensive bundle of flowers. 

"Ma," he starts, shifting from foot to foot as he tries to swallow tears, "I'm so sorry— I should have done m-more, should have done  _something_ , I— I'm sorry—" Oswald draws a long breath in, focuses on the feeling of Ed's hand rubbing over his back, "Eddie and I are going to make this right. I love you, ma." Determined to do it himself, Oswald takes the flowers from Ed and gets up on his tip toes to deposit the bouquet into the designated holder. He draws his fingers across the metal plate that bears his mother's name, traces the letters with a loving hand. 

They go back to Oswald's apartment and pack up his clothes and whatever else he thinks he needs to have with him, shoving it all into a single duffel bag. He leaves his records on his bed, leaves his yearbooks, his novelty mugs, his various books. The single picture of he and his mother goes folded up in his wallet, something Ed had recommended. 

Back at Ed's house, Oswald sits in his lap as Ed works on assembling bombs. He occasionally hands Ed tape, screwdrivers, and whatever else he may need. Ed works around Oswald's form in his lap, effectively keeping him comfortably close. "Oswald?" he asks, setting his fourth bomb off to the side, "You're sure you want to do this, right?"

"I'm certain," Oswald reaches up and kisses Ed, draws his fingertips over Ed's cheek and relishes in the moment, "I'm very, very certain. I want to do this with you."

It's only Wednesday, they have time before executing their plan, so Ed decides he's done making bombs for the night. Instead, he picks Oswald up and sets him down on the bed with the utmost care. They spend the rest of the night in bed, Ed pressing kisses everywhere Oswald will allow him, earning laughter and soft sounds. He thinks Oswald looks best like that, with his cheeks tinted red and his shirt unbuttoned. Ed thinks Oswald looks particularly alive, and he can't get enough of that. 

* * *

"Hey, Lee," the kitchen phone keeps Oswald leaning against the wall, "skip school tomorrow and hang out with me."

"What?" Lee laughs until she realizes he's serious, "What will Valerie say, though? She told us we needed to be there."

"Fuck Valerie, there's a new ice cream place in the mall," he lies, just a little, "I think we've earned it."

"You think?"

"I know  _you_ have," Oswald laughs wetly, realizing that this is probably the last conversation he's ever going to have with Lee, "I have some things I think you need, too. Just stop by the apartment whenever, there's a key under the mat. I piled the stuff on the bed." 

"Are you sure?" It seems so incomprehensible, considering Oswald's adoration of his physical belongings, "I mean— I'll come get it tomorrow morning but, only if you're sure." 

"You're the only person I'd want to have that stuff," he says honestly, "you're my best friend." Oswald takes a beat of quiet, then clears his groggy throat. " _So_. Tomorrow, around four? I'll pick you up at your house." 

"Okay! I'll be here."

When Oswald hangs up, he cries. He cries because he knows that he'll never be able to tell Lee just how much she means to him, how much she's done for him. He cries because she's going to be alone, once he leaves, and even though he knows she'll manage, he's afraid for her. 

* * *

The pep rally starts after a half day of school, everyone meeting up in the auditorium to fill the bleachers and cheer on what remains of the football team. It's a preparation for the homecoming game that comes the next day, giving the cheerleaders a chance to practice their routines and the football platers a chance to feel supported. More often than not, Gotham is known for their pep rallies and their apparent success— they seldom lose a game.

All things considered, that record is about to be broken. 

Oswald walks into school on Ed's arm, significantly less put together than usual. What's the point of composing an image when the people it's been created for are going to die? Despite feeling dead, Oswald is alive in response to how little consequence all of his actions may bear. He could tell anyone off, he could say anything, he could eat anything— he's alive with Ed, and that's what matters most to him.

When Ed bends down beneath the bleachers to plant a bomb, Oswald kisses his cheek. 

They go between bathrooms and corner lockers, setting everything up as best they can. "It's probably overkill," Ed admits, pushing his glasses up on his nose, "but that's okay, isn't it?"

"It's okay, Eddie," the tenth bomb gets closed up in a locker, Oswald's hand forcing the door shut, "you did a great job with all of this."

They head down to the boiler room, their final stop before a mad dash out, and the stairs are hell on Oswald's leg. He watches fondly as Ed attaches the final bomb around a pipe, electrical tape dangling from his mouth. Ed taps the timer on the front of the bomb, ticking up the seconds, "You think we can make it out of here in one minute?" 

"We can do it," Oswald puts his hand out for Ed to take, right as he presses the activating button. They haul up the stairs, two at a time, right past the doors of the auditorium where they can hear the cheer team guide the crowd of students in a chant. It doesn't seem like he realizes it, but Ed is counting down from sixty under his breath, and somewhere around thirty, Oswald joins him. By the time they're running out of the doors, they're counting down from twenty loudly. Ed leaves the petition, with his and Oswald's names signed at the bottom of the last page, just far enough away from the building that it won't be singed by the blast. They get onto Ed's motorcycle, counting back from ten as they peel out of the parking lot. Oswald looks back in time to see the blast and Ed watches it from his side mirror.

They take back streets all the way to Ed's house, where they wheel Ed's motorcycle into his father's truck, the one that normally sits idle in the garage. Nobody will recognize it, nobody will look at them; Ed has thought all of this through. He's run the plan over and over and over in his head, has literally panicked his way through it because he  _cannot_ mess this up, he cannot  _lose_ Oswald. 

Ed's father being in the house throws a real wrench in their plans.

"Hey, dad," his father jokes, as if nothing is wrong, "where are you going? You taking the truck? Oh, and of course, Oswald is here."

"We're just, um, we're— we're going out."

"Are you sure about that?" his dad advances, legs long enough to make the length of the living room floor seem so very small. "Because it looks like you two are about to steal my truck."

"I— We—"

"You wouldn't do that to me, would you?" The tone of voice that his father has put on is no longer playful, no longer entertaining or harmless, but rather daunting and full of malice. "We're all each other has. Without your mom, I'm all you have." 

From his place behind Ed, Oswald clings to his jacket. They need to leave, they need to be gone, "Eddie, do something," Oswald urges, voice quiet.

"Don't talk about my mother," Ed whimpers, voice trying to be aggressive but only falling flat with terror, "you're the one who killed her, you don't  _get_ to—" 

"You seem to forget your place, Edward, in this house—" The sound of Ed's father's voice whittles down to a croak, blood pooling in his mouth and overflowing as he falls to the floor. Oswald's ears ring with the sound of the gunshot, he hadn't even felt Ed reach for his gun at all— fear surges through him.

"We need to go," Oswald urges, taking Ed's hand and pulling him away from his father. They take their bags from Ed's bedroom, take as much money as they can, and they run. Oswald takes the keys and holds Ed's hand as he drives, feels it shaking for fifteen miles, only stopping once they've reached the city limits. "Did you— are you okay?"

"It felt good."

"Good?" Despite driving, Oswald chances looks across the seats at Ed. 

"Very good. You— you asked me if I liked him. I thought about it and," he turns to smile at Oswald, bright with tiny specks of blood on his face, "I didn't."

"I didn't either," Oswald admits, finally letting himself relax, breaking into a laugh.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading
> 
> can you believe this thing is in the home stretch? one more chapter to go. the final chapter is more of an epilogue, but i don't feel like the story is done until that bit gets brought in, too. 
> 
> next chapter's end notes are going to be lengthy, just a fair warning ahead of time. 
> 
> special thanks to speedybeams for being here with me this whole time, for putting up with me when i deleted sections of this chapter over and over and kept rewriting them. and also for waiting months on end when i decided this fic was too much for me, only to come back to it and ask for help once again. 
> 
> talk to me on tumblr, i'm [ mayor-crumblepot ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)


	10. seventeen / seventeen (reprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make it out of Gotham and get to revel in their perceived success. We reach the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _can't we be seventeen_   
>  _is that so hard to do?_   
>  _if you could let me in_   
>  _i could be good with you._
> 
> _/_
> 
> _always be seventeen_   
>  _celebrate you and i_   
>  _maybe we won't grow old_   
>  _and maybe then we'll never die_

There's a motor inn on the edge of Metropolis, where they end up around three in the morning. As if afraid of being recognized, Oswald smears makeup over the lids of his eyes and pushes his hair far into his face; stiff, angular peaks that cast terrifying shadows over his features. The woman at the counter barely looks at him once, takes his cash and gives him a key card, then turns back to the soap opera on the television. 

Oswald drops onto the bed, letting out a full body laugh that vibrates through his chest and his nose, leaving him gasping for air. When Ed brings their bags in, he pulls Oswald upright and kisses him. He lifts Oswald by his hips and holds him against the wall, like he can't get them close  _enough_ , like everything needs to be more and more and more. "We did it," his voice is laced with emotion, what could be tears or nervous sweat covering his cheeks, "we did it and you're still here— I'm so glad you're still here."

"Should it feel this good?" he asks, giggling between the various kisses Ed is planting across his neck and exposed shoulder. 

"I don't know. Oswald," Ed pushes the hair off of Oswald's forehead, looks him head on and past the smudged purple eyeshadow he'd put on, "you're fantastic. You make me feel like I could do anything. Thank you," the first gratitude is slow, but Ed starts to repeat himself, starts to go over and over as he kisses along Oswald's neck, "thank you, thank you, thank you."

"You're amazing, Eddie— Eddie, listen to me," all Oswald gets is a soft grunt of acknowledgement, "you saved me. That night at my apartment,  _you_ saved me. I'm stronger with you, we're stronger together. And you know— you know, you're beautiful," the pad of his thumb goes over the specs of blood on Ed's face, now dried to his cheek like tiny, morbid freckles. "The world is unfair, and terrible, and full of awful people, but— it can stay locked out there. With you, in here, it's beautiful."

* * *

They leave the motor inn and get the car painted, they get the license plate changed, and they find a dingy apartment for rent on top of what used to be a toy factory. 

Outside of the window, the neon sign blares through and casts the small space in an eerie green light. They couldn't care less. It's perfect, it's amazing— it's theirs. 

There isn't a plan for work, not yet.

They have to change their hairstyles, at least for the time being, in order to avoid being recognized. 

The only furniture inside of the apartment is an old fold-out couch, just clean enough for them to sleep in, pressed closely together. That's how they end every night, tucked up next to one another on a bed that's seen far more years than it was meant to, in an apartment that occasionally smells like burning glue— as long as they're together, it's alright. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, and for reaching the end with me
> 
> special shoutout to speedybeams for encouraging me to finish this, for telling me "you do you" when i was stressing over what people would want, and for putting up with me when half of the shit i talked about what just _this_ fic, nonstop. ride or die.
> 
> for every person who saw this through, for those of you who commented and said such lovely and well thought out things: thank you. thank you, thank you, thank you. i know there are bigger names in this fandom who are writing longer works than this, things that relate more closely to the canon content; i want to thank you for taking the time to read my work alongside those. it means the world, it really does. 
> 
> i'm posting this chapter a little early because it is _very_ short, and as a bit of a celebration for the end of my semester. that, and i just couldn't wait for this to be finished. it feels amazing to finally have a fully completed multichapter fic— this is the first time i've committed to something like this and seen it through. 
> 
> it's been real, y'all. thanks so much.
> 
> talk to me on tumblr! i'm [ mayor-crumblepot! ](https://mayor-crumblepot.tumblr.com)
> 
> and, if you're wondering where the chapter titles were coming from (or where the tiny lyrics at the start of each chapter came from), you can check out the off-broadway production of _heathers: the musical_ [ here. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dkl2Dn7WeHA) it's a great musical, and the cast is fantastic. have fun.


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